


Praetorian

by shingekicorn



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dark Marco Bott, Doctor Eren, F/F, F/M, Fake Marriage, M/M, Multi, Murder, Political Fuckery, fake engagement really but same thing, knight jean, time for the long awaited murder prince au ya'll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekicorn/pseuds/shingekicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt, the pride and future of Jinae, is in need of a guard. Someone to watch over him should any harm attempt to befall him, and protect him from the dangers his status brings. One Jean Kirschstein, a soldier of no noble background, is lucky enough to be chosen. </p>
<p>Well, lucky may be too strong of a word. </p>
<p>A tale about a prince, his guard, and his right hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first off I want to thank [histrionicdaisy](http://histrionicdaisy.tumblr.com/) because they are the filthy enabler who got me to plot this out over IMs. Believe it or not this entire thing started from me watching Sofia the First reruns. I really can't let anything stay happy for 5 minutes. 
> 
> WELCOME TO PRAETORIAN. This project, as I am writing now, is already halfway completed through its planned 5 chapter run and I'm very glad you've decided to join me. Fair warning, this story will contain sex and violence. But this is a fanfic so I suppose that's why you're here. Get ready for a long journey because this chapter is the shortest of the entire story. Nothing but 11k+ from here on out. 
> 
> Now, on with the show

 

 

From the time Jean was small, he was well aware of the prince in the royal court of Jinae.

His parents weren’t exceptionally rich. He wasn’t privileged in any way. His family lived in a modest home in the shadow of the royal castle, forever eclipsed by the nobility that was so close yet so far away. The home of the rulers of Jinae and the sprawling capital were but distant shapes Jean could see from his window, something to look at while eating meals and doing his reading. It wasn’t as bad as the days of old, from what he knew. He had learned in a little primer in a little schoolhouse that just a few generations previous the peasantry lived covered in their own filth. The nobility was decorated in opulence while those below them starved. People tossed the contents of chamber pots out windows and rats covered in plagues crawled through the streets spreading death.

He knew humanity managed to move forward. At least somewhat. While old traditions and ways of thinking died, more came to take their place. The world now seemed to have one foot in the future and one stuck in the days of yore. While people talked of the future and what it would bring now they had come so far—gas lamps and running water and the first trial runs of locomotive machines—they also spoke of knights and the fairy-tale adventures they would have. The days of full body armor and crusades for justice ended, but the knights themselves still existed.

It was those stories that convinced Jean what he wanted to do with his life.

He buckled down. He begged. He behaved at his very best. His mother didn’t want to let him go, but eventually conceded to allow him to become a page. He promised he would write. He would visit should his masters allow him. His parents waved him goodbye with tears in their eyes and Jean’s young mind was filled with fantasies of armor and princesses.

 Other children joined him as he left and he knew many of them would return. His parents joked about it often. Children with dreams of swords often found the hard work of page life too taxing and returned home to find another trade to learn, but Jean swore he would not be one of them. He would see it through until the end. He kept his focus as his peasant clothes were switched out for the traditional tunic of a page, and he came face-to-face for the first time with the royal family.

That was the day he first laid eyes on Prince Marco.

The king had made a speech. He remembers that much. He would hear the same speech every year at every new class of pages for years to come. But Jean’s eyes kept drifting over to the freckled young boy in blue, who sat in a smaller copy of his father’s throne, smiling down at the children who were so eager to serve. Prince Marco wasn’t an unknown to him. His mother had told him Prince Marco’s birth led to weeks of celebration. Every year fireworks would go off on the castle grounds to honor him. His portrait was printed and delivered to villages all over so adults could fawn over their precious heir.

Yes, he was fully aware of who Prince Marco was. The sight of the young royal, a boy with so much power who was the same age as Jean, left him feeling…odd. He couldn’t exactly place it. Just  _odd_.

The little royal, surveying the crowds with unrestrained excitement, caught his staring and smiled. The odd feeling in Jean’s chest intensified.

One by one, butterflies bloomed inside his stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

**Praetorian**

**Chapter 1**

The country of Jinae is located between the New Marian Empire and the Kingdom of Sina. It is smaller than its neighbors with a modest population and a healthy trade in spices and agricultural goods. In recent times, it has become notable for its budding industrial period, resulting in the people of Jinae being the first to experience advancements that go on to change how the world lives. Its northern borders are met on one side by the mighty walls of Sina and the rolling fields of Marian farmland, and its southern borders end on the ocean. By all accounts, it is nothing terribly special compared to the opulence and military prowess of its surrounding territories.

Excepting, of course, the genius of its royal family and their Royal Guard.

A unit of knights specially picked, trained, and kept close to the palace to serve the royal family and their people, the Royal Guard is the highest tier a soldier can aspire for. The Royal Guard and its elite units gave Jinae many victories in generations of conflict. The history books passed to its children tell tales of their valor and how they turned the tide of battle toward Jinae’s victory even when hope was thin. All the while under the command of the noble family, whose planning and strategy has kept Jinae from succumbing to takeovers and war campaigns laid by its neighbors.

Nearing twenty five and already being a decorated member of the Royal Guard is something that deserves praise. Years of grueling training, breaking bones, and bruising muscles—all of it for the slim chance that  _maybe_  the Royal Guard will select you from the endless lineup of hopeful knights. Years of pushing oneself to the limits of human capability for the smallest chance you can advance to the highest order of knights in Jinae.

Jean knows he has to count himself lucky he was chosen. He wasn’t the best warrior of the bunch, not even close, but something about him led to the Captain of the Guard selecting him from his squire class. He worked twice as hard to catch up with the others and worked twice as hard as that to remain in standing alongside them.  Which was saying something, considering he was trying to catch up to people like Mikasa. The Royal Guard produced knights of near superhuman fighting ability and he wanted to prove he deserved to have their emblem on his shield.

Sometimes, though, he wonders if the Royal Guard is just one big pissing contest. But that’s mostly when he’s around Hitch.

Like now, with her sword pressed to his and her sweat dripping to the dirt of the training area as she uses that nasally tone he despises so much to taunt him. “C’mon, _Jeanbo_ , you’re losing your touch.”

If he were a few years younger, he would have risen to the bait. He did it plenty when he first met her. He hadn’t even been in the Guard a day and Hitch taunted him into a fight that was utterly one-sided because she fought dirty.

But now?

Now, Jean smiles behind his blade and sidesteps so Hitch falls forward, losing her balance. Jean uses his blade to twist hers so it flies out of her hand and into his.

His efforts get him tripped when Hitch swings her legs back to knock into his knees.

To the side, the other knights from Jean’s selection year cheer them on. Some sit half-dressed in their training armor, others in their casuals, some still tending to checking over their weapons, even though a note had been pinned to the barrack door they had the day off. Sasha waves at him while chewing an apple and Jean manages a halfhearted wave back while spitting out dirt.

Hitch, for the most part, dances above him holding his sword. This mock battle is over, and once again, her cheating has earned her a win.

“Jeannie, sooner or later you need to start fighting dirty.”

Jean huffs and lifts himself up. Hitch sticks her tongue out at him and Jean only shakes his head before snatching his sword back and dusting himself off.

“Like I tell you every time, Hitch,  _no_. There’s no honor in cheating your way to the top.”

Hitch rolls her eyes. This argument is going on four years now and she isn’t about to relent anytime soon. “Maybe no honor, but there are  _results_. And those results are going to get me promoted out of the barracks.”

Jean has no clue what she means. It sounds vaguely familiar, like something he would have said years ago, but he doesn’t know what she can possibly mean. He dusts as much of the dirt as he can from his trousers, laments the sweat stains on his shirt, and turns to walk back to the shade offered by the small lounging area. He has better things to do than entertain Hitch’s rumors. His boots need polishing, and Sasha is waving a cup of water at him that looks _very_ inviting.

Jean nearly praises the gods above when he sees ice in the water, and he downs half the cup in one go. In his peripheral vision, he can see Connie abandon his seat by the window and slink over to Sasha’s side.

“Hey, why do you think we suddenly got a day off?”

“Emergency meeting with the upper brass?” Sasha guesses.

“Psh. Only pages get the day off when that happens.” Hitch flips her sweaty hair and Jean grimaces mid-chew on a chunk of ice. “ _I_ know what’s going on.”

Everyone in the vicinity immediately lets out a snort of disbelief. Hitch makes an offended noise in return.

Jean hands Sasha the cup back before biting out, “Last time you said that you tricked Marlowe into thinking the winter formal ball was a costume event.”

“It was just a little joke,” Hitch giggles, straight face breaking before she’s done speaking. She waves her hand around in dismissal. Like it’s unimportant. Like she didn’t cause Marlowe the worst case of mortification in their division until Samuel pissed the bed drunk a few weeks later.

Jean knows this argument will have no winner. But this is what Hitch does. She exists to debate her own ethics and to drag everyone into it. He knows better, and yet he crosses his arms and glares down at her like a disappointed parent. “He showed up dressed as a  _chicken_.”

“Captain Levi thought it was funny.” Hitch ignores him entirely as she checks her cuticles.

“You  _know_  he only goes to parties drunk off his ass. He thinks everything is funny then.” Jean rolls his eyes. The captain doesn’t really laugh at anything, but he does make a distinct little snorting noise. The same night as Marlowe’s chicken suit he also not-laughed at the commander’s eyebrows and a phallic shaped wine stain on a tablecloth.

Really, his sense of humor isn’t some sort of seal on quality or approval.

Not that it stops Hitch. She waves him off again and uses that _tone_ —the one where she is the clear victor and nothing can drag her down. Jean hates that tone. Everyone hates that tone. It’s why she uses it.

“Fine then. Don’t listen to me, even though I know something big and important is happening. By the end of the day, I won’t be seeing you again anyway.”

From one of the windowsills, Annie looks up from polishing her dagger and utters her first words of the day.

“Are you finally returning to Hell where you belong?”

Laughs erupt from all over. Reiner, chewing on ice himself, slaps a podium so hard the wood makes a concerning noise. Hitch wrinkles her nose at her bunk mate and blows a raspberry.

“Oh, ha  _ha_ , Annie. You should be a jester.”

“Division 4!”

The voice is faint, carried over from across the training yard of the complex the Royal Guard calls base, but its effect is that of a whip crack to a trained animal. Everyone stiffens. Those sitting down stand up. Those already standing straighten themselves out to look presentable. A resounding _thud_  sounds as every knight present takes the proper stance and gives a salute to the Captain of the Guard.

Captain Levi, the smallest soldier in the Guard but the most feared and respected, marches toward them with intensity in his brow and an unspoken demand for their undivided attention. The soldiers present give it to him without question.

“Division 4, at attention! I’m only giving this order once and failure to comply will mean  _consequences_.” Jean and every knight around him swallow at that.  _Consequences_  from the captain are never anything good. Connie actually shivers at the memory of the last time the captain handed out  _consequences_. “In  _exactly_  half an hour I want you clean and in your formals, lined up in the entrance hall, and  _stone fucking silent_. Misbehavior of any kind— _Braus_ , _I mean you_ —I will take as express permission to use you as a target practice dummy. Am I clear?”

The knights know he means it. He means every word. Especially Sasha, who is reliving the nightmare that is her infamous kitchen theft the captain refuses to let her forget.

“ _Yes_ , _Captain_!”

Levi nods. “Dismissed! Failure to appear on time will mean your resignation from the Guard!”

“ _Understood_ , _Captain_!”

Levi turns on his heel and leaves, the knights waiting until he’s farther away before breathing a sigh of relief and sprinting toward the barracks to grab their formal uniforms. Jean thinks of doing the same, but…

He can feel the sweat all over his body. He needs an immediate shower. But doing that wouldn’t leave him enough time to find his uniform and get dressed. But putting on the uniform while this dirty would mean being killed by the captain.

Sasha, ever the good friend, pats his shoulder and calls his attention from his time management crisis.

“Go ahead to the showers; I’ll bring your formals down.”

Jean gives her an easy smile. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve Sasha’s niceness, but he appreciates it anyway. “Thanks, Sash.”

She nods and he begins the trek to the nearest shower. There’s one hidden away around the training area not really meant for long showers, but it’ll do. Jean strips away his shirt—clinging to him with damp fabric quite stubbornly—before another set of feet pad in to the stall on the other side of the dividing wall.

“Hey—”

Jean doesn’t have the patience to let her finish. “Not now, Hitch.”

“I’m being  _nice_ , you prat. It’s about the thing.” Jean finishes stripping away his clothes and turns on the water. It’s freezing this time of day, coming from the well under the building, but he welcomes the cold on his burning skin. Hitch’s voice is just a buzz to him past the crude showerhead fixed to the wall. The white noise doubles as Hitch turns on the water in her own stall and matches his soft noises of soaping up.

Not like he really wants to listen, anyway. The dirt he’s scrubbing from his skin is more interesting than what Hitch can possibly have to say.

“Didn’t we _just_  have a conversation about how none of us believe you?”

He can’t see her but Jean can perfectly picture the eye roll at her scoffing noise. “I’m going to tell you anyway because I think you’re pathetic and you would faint if you didn’t know.” She waits just a moment with the running water being the only noise between them. “The prince is coming.”

Jean nearly drops the little soap chunk he plucked out the supply basket. “…the prince.”

“The prince,” Hitch confirms.

“The prince is coming.” Jean’s voice goes dumb. The butterflies from the days of old threaten to return with a vengeance.

“Yes. The prince is coming here. I established that.” Hitch’s sly grin can be felt through her words and Jean forces himself to scrub at his face instead of giving her the satisfaction of throwing him off guard.

He fails. His curiosity gets the best of him and he can’t stop his voice from wavering.

“W-Why?”

“He’s looking for a bodyguard, from what I hear. His last one died and since there’s some kind of tension in the court, he’s looking to replace the bastard _today_. By the way, with my list of accomplishments and _glowing_ recommendations, I’m a shoe-in for the job.”

Jean shakes. With excitement or nerves, he isn’t sure. “Today? Oh, gods above—”

“It’s not huge. Just the prince and his right hand, and the Commander as an escort.”

Her reassurance doesn’t help. As little as Jean has seen the prince over the years, the idea of having him so close  _does_  things. Terrible things. Things that make Jean happy the water is cold.

Things that make Jean plop his wet head onto the wall and groan.

“ _Uuugh_.”

Hitch giggles from the other side of the wall. “This is why I’m telling you early. Now you can get it all out in the shower.”

Jean chokes on air and turns an alarming shade of red. “Hitch!”

On the other side, Hitch’s water turns off and the whoosh of a towel takes its place. “You’re the one with the dirty mind. Try not to swallow your tongue like you did at the summer solstice parade.”

Jean crushes his soap chunk in his hand.

He doesn’t like to think about that incident. It was humiliating and awful and  _gods above why did Hitch have to be the one to witness it_? Now it’s all he’s going to think about today while the _prince_  is evaluating them all.

“I  _hate_  you.”

“I know~”

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about Jean and his feelings for the prince is he is completely aware of its ridiculousness and futility.

This situation, the butterflies that cause him to choke on nothing—it’s one that has plagued him since he was young. It tends to happen every time he finds he likes a person. And lord…does he like the prince.

It’s just the prince is beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful. One of the loveliest creatures Jean has ever laid eyes on. Prince Marco’s radiant wherever he goes and he offers an unmatched kindness to all he meets. In the few incidents where Jean has been close enough to watch, he’s seen an angel in human form. And he  _knows_  it’s stupid, and impractical, and he’s lucky he even gets to  _look_ at the prince sometimes, but he just… _cannot_ help it.

He’s a knight of Jinae. He’s a member of the Royal Guard. From his days as a page, he was raised to have utmost loyalty to the royal family. Which he does; he will gladly lie down his life if it means keeping the king and queen safe from harm. But with all his loyalty and dedication to the preservation of the royal family, his  _interest_  in the prince is an unfortunate happenstance. A normal childhood nervousness toward the prince evolved into a debilitating crush sometime in his teens. Probably from hormones and an already existing sense of admiration.

He’s made his peace with it, really.

He’s had relationships. Small ones, but that was more due to the fact Jean is a busy man with an active lifestyle. He isn’t some nutter who decided to pledge himself to stay untouched for a person who would never look his way. Especially someone like the prince, who’s going to marry a beautiful woman some day and rule Jinae with her as his queen. It was and is unrealistic to hope for anything else.

As much as he repeats these words to himself, imprinting the futility of his own yearning into his brain, he still finds himself with shaking hands as he adjusts his uniform and stands at attention in the entrance hall. To his side, Hitch smirks and taps one polished nail against the ornamental sword at her side. To his other side, Annie looks as unimpressed as ever. One by one, the knights of Jean’s training class, Division 4, line up. A few spots over, Connie scratches at his rear through his uniform and asks if anyone knows why the formals were required.

Jean can feel his face burn. He tries to will it down, staring at the stern expressions of the portraits lining the entrance hall as a distraction, but it doesn’t do much.

Captain Levi cuts through Jean’s attempts to calm himself and he nearly yelps at the smaller man’s booming voice echoing off the marble floors.

“Division 4! At attention!”

The command sends a ripple through the knights. Standing up straight, uniforms pressed down flatly, eyes straight ahead—Levi begins to inspect them all for mistakes. Levi himself is not in his formals. It strikes Jean as somewhat odd. But then again, Levi breaks regulation by wearing a holstered gun with his sword. The captain is known for being rather odd compared to the rest of the Guard.

Levi stops somewhere around the middle of the lineup and commands their attention.

“Last week, an assassination attempt was made on Princess Mabel.”

Jean, along with many others, gasp. The Bodt family’s youngest child is beloved! Mothers named their daughters after her! There’s no reason to target a young girl who isn’t an immediate heir to the throne!

Levi doesn’t reprimand them for reacting and continues, slowly making his way back up the line. “Thankfully, she wasn’t hurt. She was with her brother at the time and his personal guard put a stop to it. At the cost of his life.”

The captain has a certain way of speaking. His speeches aren’t eloquent, or put together that well, but Jean finds whenever Levi begins one, it’s possible to hear a pin drop every time he stops talking. His presence commandeers the room and his words captivate everyone’s attention. It’s enough to make Jean the slightest bit envious.

Not that he’d admit it. For all the power the captain has, he always looks furious when he has to speak to them like this.

“So, the prince is in need of another guard. Someone to stay by his side every day. Someone who will check his mail, his food, and the people who come into contact with him. Someone to accompany him everywhere he goes.” Levi stops mid-step, shaking his head. “Personally, it sounds like the shittiest job in the world to me.”

The captain’s bluntness on the subject is appreciated.

“But instead of taking another seasoned member of the Guard, the prince has asked for one of you. He is here today to pick one of  _you_  lucky fucks to be his new armor monkey. I’m obligated to tell you how this job will mean a pay raise and a room inside the castle. A good performance on this job may earn you a title and lands if you haven’t earned that already.”

Several people shuffle at that. Jean feels hope bloom in his chest. They earn a damn decent pay for what they do, but a title? A title means a house. It means status. A title would mean Jean can just give his mother charge of the family finances instead of sending her half his pay every month. Even with the accomplishments Jean has under his belt, he still hasn’t managed to earn the prestige young soldiers are promised when they begin their training.

Suddenly the idea of being the prince’s bodyguard is worth a bit more than being able to look at a pretty face all day.

Of course, the captain sees the hope blooming on their faces and wrinkles his nose at their greediness.

“I’m also personally obligated to tell you the perks of this goddamn job are nothing more than a shiny bribe. This job is more than a better mattress and gold to blow on prostitutes. You represent the Royal Guard and  _me_  when you’re out there trying to keep nut-jobs from killing our future king. You won’t be slaying beasts and assisting border skirmishes anymore. You’ll be in the middle of the royal court.”

The captain comes to a stop and faces them with his stance firm. His eyes scan them all with judgment clear in their intent and everyone who dares meet his gaze head on is overcome with the distinct impression they have done something wrong.

“So for the love of the gods and all that is decent, if by some  _miracle_ the prince selects you, act with honor and dignity. Am I clear?”

“ _Yes, Captain_!”

Levi gives a minute nod. It’s the closest form of approval they can hope for, and Jean feels his nerves tingle in anticipation as the captain turns to position himself next to the large oak doors of the entrance hall. With a signal out the window, they open.

Commander Erwin stands on the other side, flanked by two smaller figures given ethereal halos from the sun outside. Like an angel announcing the arrival of the gods, the commander allows his voice to fill the hall as he allows his company to enter ahead of him.

“Presenting His Royal Majesty, Prince Marco of Jinae.”

He’s as beautiful as Jean remembers. Prince Marco inherited the dark skin of his father, a gorgeous brown shade dotted with freckles (kisses from angels, Jean swears), the gentle smile that could only have come from the queen, innocent chocolate eyes that trap all those who meet them… Jean can feel the floor leave his feet the second the prince sets foot inside. His gentle smile blocks out everything else and Jean can only stare in admiration.

It brings back the distant memory of his youth, when he once read a poem where a hopeful lover tried to woo a noble lady. She told him to bring her the sun and he returned with a mirror. The lady asked what his intent was with such an answer to her request and the hopeful lover replied, “To me, you are the sun.”

When Jean first read it at seven years old, he thought it was the cheesiest thing. Predictable and stupid.

Now he knows exactly what the damn thing was conveying.

Marco is truly the sun, for only the sun could be so radiant and pure.

Jean can stand there and stare at His Majesty’s face forever, but his entrance into the base of the Royal Guard is met with every knight in his presence bowing in respect. Jean has to force himself to tilt his head downwards as he drops to one knee. As much as he would love to take it all in, commit it to memory forever, showing his respect is more important.

Marco’s tinkling laughter begins and Jean feels lighter than air.

“Please, please. Stand. Bowing would imply I am above you all, and I am no king yet. I would prefer to look at you as equals.”

The knights rise with uncertainty. Jean’s eyes immediately find the prince again to take in everything they can. Like every instance where Jean has been able to catch a glimpse, Prince Marco stands with an easygoing smile and a sense of poise and propriety Jean can never hope to match.

Even more amazing, he manages to keep his easygoing smile even as Captain Levi looks at him with his usual glare.

“As requested, Your Highness, the knights of Division 4 have been brought in.”

Levi gestures to them all, standing still as statues in the hope the prince will acknowledge their existence. Marco nods and gives the captain a bright toothy smile that isn’t returned in the slightest.

“Excellent. Thank you for indulging me. I hope it was not a bother.”

Commander Erwin takes over for Levi, leaning down and placing his hand over his heart.

“Not at all, Sire. It is our pleasure to provide you with whatever you ask for.”

Jean, still focused on the way sunbeams bounce off the prince’s hair and dust becomes golden glimmers in his presence, feels an elbow jab him in the ribs before Hitch hisses out a quiet, “ _Ugh_ , the royal mooch.”

Jean’s eyes fly back up to the front. He’d almost forgotten about that. Something about the prince just makes the rest of the world fade away. Hitch’s comment almost seems to break a spell—the golden light surrounding Marco in Jean’s vision fades away and he becomes very aware of a smaller form standing close to him.

By the prince’s side and looking quite bored at everything is the infamous shadow to Jinae’s royalty.

Eren Jaeger. Son of the royal physician, a trained doctor himself, and if the rumors are to be believed, an incredibly lazy mooch who uses his status as the prince’s friend to sit around eating and drinking all day. Jean never has liked what he’s heard about this man. As someone who’s spent their entire life working to get where he is, someone who avoids lifting a finger just…doesn’t sit right. It shouldn’t sit right with anyone. A man who learns the ins and outs of a trade only to do  _nothing_  is useless and has no business involving himself with the nobility.

Annie clenches her teeth and subtly reaches behind Jean to jab Hitch herself. “Shut up, Hitch.”

Hitch twists her pretty lips up in a grimace, hissing through her teeth so no one will notice her talking.

“You can’t blame me. I may cheat but at least I don’t leech off royal money to avoid getting a job.”

Jean jabs her before Annie can do it. Captain Levi looks in their direction and all three of them return to being statues. Hitch may like being a chatterbox, but under the captain’s threat of _consequences_ ,she’s as scared as the rest of them.

By the prince, the commander is still talking. Marco nods along as Commander Erwin speaks, uttering little hums of understanding.

“—can assure you Division 4 is one of our most promising, Your Majesty.”

Marco laughs again. A little sound that somehow convinces Jean everything in the world is okay. “So I’ve heard. Aren’t they coming up on their fifth year since their selection?”

“In just a few months’ time,” Erwin confirms.

Marco claps his hands together, threading his fingers against his chest. “Amazing. I cannot thank you all enough for your service to my family and our country.”

The Commander, ever a man looking to keep his soldiers in the positive regard of the royal family, seems almost smug. “Do you have any requests or qualifications for your selection?”

“None I can think of.” Marco shakes his head. He turns slightly to the slouching figure at his side, blinking his radiant brown eyes as dull green stares ahead at the youths lined up for their choosing. “Eren, what do you think?”

Eren hums. He wrinkles his nose, looking up and down several of the knights near him, and screws his features in thought before relaxing and turning back to the prince.

“You might want to start with the winners of the Rose of Valor. Several knights in this division have been awarded the rose within the past three years.”

“Our most decorated soldier would be Mikasa of House Ackerman, Sir, but I’m afraid she is away tending to the family estate,” the commander adds in. Jean is somewhat thankful Mikasa isn’t here. House Ackerman already has everything they need to have good standing; the prince would choose her in a heartbeat.

Marco nods. “Understandable.”

The commander steps ahead, gently guiding the prince toward one of the taller figures at the other end of the line. Jean can see Reiner clench his hands behind his back so tightly his knuckles whiten. He isn’t sure if he’s a lucky bastard or a doomed soul.

“Past her would be Reiner Braun, who won the rose just two months ago for his actions during a border conflict…”

The words of the commander fade away into white noise. The marble floors and fine draperies blur together and slowly Jean’s form relaxes as he drifts once again into the tunnel vision the prince is so good at inducing. There is a sense of shame that comes with his lovesickness, but Jean is so full of fluttering butterflies he can no longer feel it.

When  _did_ he become this way? He had seen glimpses of His Majesty throughout his youth and while his nerves lit aflame at the idea of the prince casting his gaze, it wasn’t until years later his presence caused Jean to forget basic language. Years later as a squire, catching a glimpse of the prince watching from a balcony as he learned the proper way to grip a sword. Years later, helping elder knights into their armor for tournaments, blushing like a madman when the prince took to his throne besides the king. Years later, nearly losing all sense when the prince’s eyes caught his at his induction into the Guard.

At least Jean can claim he still has his dignity. He has yet to faint or scream at the prince’s presence, so he has not yet hit rock bottom in terms of pathetic lovesickness.

Though he feels as if he’ll reach it soon.

Especially when the prince and his ensemble reach Annie.

Jean still tunes most of it out, but snaps back to attention at the realization his jaw has been hanging open.

“—ournament of Blades! You were very good! I don’t recall that form of combat being taught in Jinae, though.”

Annie, who normally shows very little in terms of emotion, sprouts a small pink blush as she tries to look anywhere but the prince’s eyes. She seems to settle on the collar of his shirt and Jean isn’t sure if he feels pity or gut-tearing envy.

“It isn’t, Sire. I studied privately with my father before I left for my page years.”

Marco nods in understanding. “Well, good on him, then. Soon I imagine you will be taking on disciples and passing on your amazing skills.”

“I would hope so, Sire.” Annie’s eyes travel upward briefly and Jean can see how blinded they become by the brightness of the prince’s kind face. It eases Jean’s worries a bit that Marco seems to affect  _everyone_  with his presence.

But then the prince turns to him.

Jean promptly forgets everything he has ever learned and begins screaming inside his own head.

The prince looks him over, eyes lingering in places but never for too long, and he makes a thoughtful humming noise. Jean doesn’t dare even breathe when Marco’s gaze reaches his face.

Eren, looking a little less bored now, begins speaking. “Jean Kirschstein. Ranked in the top five percentile of the first ten divisions. Awarded the Rose of Valor only once for defeating a Firebeast in the northern mountains.”

“A dragon?” Marco implies quizzically.

Jean replies before he can stop himself. In his mind he screams to stop, to cease before he chokes on his tongue like he always does around people he likes, but the words leave his mouth before the order really registers.

“A close relative. Smaller. It was dragging away village children.” Jean’s face goes increasingly red. “Sir.”

Marco’s eyes flutter and Jean is so captivated by his lashes that the odd little twitch in the prince’s smile doesn’t register. “I see. And you killed it with no aid?”

Jean wants to swallow, to make sure his throat still works, but his mouth is so dry.

“Only my sword, sir.”

Eren tilts his head toward Marco’s ear, firmly keeping his large green eyes on Jean’s nervous form. “Kirschstein comes with high recommendations. His page and squire class were trained on castle grounds.”

“Who was your knight?” Marco’s head tilts a bit, as if processing information. Jean finds it adorable.

“Sir Mitabi Jarnach.”

Eren buts in again and Jean feels his fists clench. Jaeger seems to be smirking now, eyes slowly making their way down Jean’s body as he speaks. “Kirschstein was a sponsored page. His family has no knights in their history and come from the peasantry.”

Jean wishes he had the authority to tell Eren to shut up. He  _knows_ most knights have ties. Hell, Mikasa is the captain’s cousin and heir to the family estate! Everyone has connections! How else could anyone afford the cost? Those who rise from the peasantry don’t have the same standing as everyone else! Is this some sick method of intimidation?

But Marco doesn’t seem bothered. If anything, he seems impressed, clapping his hands together in praise.

“That makes your achievements  _very_  impressive. I admire your sense of commitment.”

Those words mean the world. Receiving that sort of praise from someone like the future king… Jean has to clench his fists so hard his nails dig into his palm so he doesn’t _sigh_  his reply.

 “I-It was truly nothing, Your Majesty.”

Marco waves it away. In a gesture Jean usually sees from Hitch, it is anything but dismissive. With an internal groan, he can’t help but notice even the prince’s hand waves are regal.

“Nonsense. Becoming a member of the Guard is not easy, and you managed to earn a very high rank through sheer willpower alone. I’m surprised you haven’t earned yourself land and a title yet.”

Jean resists the urge to shrink in on himself. The Guard as a whole tends to keep their pay to themselves so they can afford supplies and have a savings when they earn things like a house. But Jean…doesn’t. He is the _only_  one in Division 4 who doesn’t.

“I send most of my pay home, sir.”

For the briefest of moments, something akin to disappointment flashes on the prince’s face. Beside him, Eren’s eyes widen for the barest second before he composes himself once more. Marco smiles again with another small head tilt. “Oh, a wife?”

“My mother, sir.”

That hint of disappointment vanishes and something new takes over Marco’s features. Something Jean can’t exactly place. The smile remains, but Marco’s eyes change into something…something that can only be described as plotting.

He briefly looks to Eren before turning his attention back to the knight. “Truly admirable… Have you served security before?”

“Yes. Parades, solstice festivals, and carnivals if the upper class is in attendance.” Security duties are mostly handed down to the younger Guard members, everyone in the room has served a turn. Surely the prince would already know that.

Whether or not he knew, the answer pleases him.

“Splendid.” Marco bends to whisper something in Eren’s ear, who nods before whispering something back and summoning Commander Erwin with a gesture. “Commander, I’ve made my decision.”

“Already?” Erwin, for the most part, looks shocked. The line beyond Jean—starting with Hitch, who looks outraged she hasn’t even had the chance to present herself—begins glaring daggers into Jean’s skull and furiously whispering among themselves. Annie breaks her stoic stance and bugs her eyes out. From the end of the line, Reiner leans and gives a visual thumbs up before Captain Levi painfully hits him in the stomach.

Jean is simply stupefied. Prince Marco smiles at him once more, something playful matched by a fierce look on Eren’s own face, before giving his order.

“Yes. I want this knight’s things packed and delivered to the castle immediately. His official duties will begin first thing tomorrow morning.”

Jean can at least claim he still has his dignity. He doesn’t faint.

Hitch does, though.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be a guard of the prince one must be poised, professional, and ready to spring into action at any moment. Even if the very thought of the prince's smile makes your face explode tomato red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Summer got busy real fast, what with classes and vacations and such, but rest assured this fic is still going strong. I'm so happy at the response this fic has gotten so far and I'm glad you've all come along for the ride.

 

 

When Jean was a squire, he fell in love with Mikasa Ackerman.

Mikasa was a beauty who set his heart on fire with her mere existence. Her strength was unmatched and her skill in combat was on par with masters. Every second he spent near her was akin to staring at the sun and slowly going blind from its sheer power. All the awe he feels now for another he felt for her just as intensely. He can recall all the days he lost to pining after her, hoping to break through and be the one to win her heart and her hand.

But he wasn’t.

She rejected him. Brutally. And physically. He might have swallowed dirt after being flipped over in the stable courtyard.

The moral of the story is even though that entire chapter of his life ended in disaster, he moved past it. He can speak to her now  _mostly_ without making an idiot of himself. He holds high respect for her as a soldier and sometimes she seems to imply she respects him as well. Now they tend to get together to spar because they can take each other’s hits and refuse to hold back. Jean still gets blindsided at times by how unnaturally pretty she can look with his blood on her knuckles, but that’s a minor issue.

So he applies that lesson to his new job. He learns to deal with the fluttery crush embedded deep in his bones while maintaining a professional face with his charge.

Which is easier said than done.

Thankfully, he has a private washroom now where he can get his  _frustration_  out alone.

 

**Praetorian**

**Chapter 2**

Jean’s new accommodations are better than expected for a simple bodyguard. He has a rather beautiful window with a reading cushion fluffed for use overlooking the decorated shrubbery outside. His walls are a pleasant robin’s egg blue. His bed is infinitely more comfortable than anything he has ever slept on.

He even has a private bath and toilet. He has  _running water_  in his  _room_.

All of Jean’s belongings can fit into a single trunk, and his room is easily half the size of his family home. It takes some getting used to. For one of the smaller and undecorated rooms in the castle, it is easily the most luxurious place Jean has ever stayed in.

Thankfully he doesn’t spend too much time inside.

No, a guard’s schedule is too busy to stay in his room all day.

Jean’s day begins while still dark, rising and dressing in the custom uniform for the direct servants of the nobility. The royal Bodt crest on his breast and back, Firebeast leather serving as hidden protection, padding hidden in his shirt to shield his vitals—he leaves his room every morning with his polished sword hanging off one hip and determination in his veins as the sun begins to peak over the horizon.

He eats with some of the other servants in the kitchen, somehow being allowed to sample foods he only ever got on holidays at home, before he attends to the prince’s breakfast. The royal family’s meals are prepared by the chef and put on trays while the servants eat and the rest of the castle slowly wakes. Then Jean stands guard while each dish is sampled by a taster for potential poisons or hazards. He escorts the tray from the kitchens up several floors until it reaches the prince’s lavish bedroom, where the night guard is officially allowed to leave and Jean takes his place.

After about a week, it becomes something so methodical Jean doesn’t even hesitate in knocking anymore.

“Your Highness?” Jean balances a tray of elaborately laid foodstuffs and tea on one hand while knocking with the other. The thick doors of the palace do not allow him to hear inside but a lack of a signal is taken as a hint the prince may still be asleep. “I’m coming in.”

Jean knows his own space is not lavish, because the prince’s room easily outclasses him by far. A beautiful miasma of polished wood and stone, gold and silver on an elaborately painted ceiling, the prince’s room assaults the senses with its opulence. Decorated windows with fine draperies allow in sunlight from all angles. Plush sofas and oak tables offer sitting space in front of a spacious fireplace. A large bed coated in pillows and fine silks beckons from an elevated platform.

Standing in front of a large and painstakingly decorated wardrobe is Marco, fixing up the last few buttons on one of his lighter dress jackets.

He turns when he hears the door opening, smiling brightly at the sight of his guard.

“Oh, good morning!”

Jean returns the sentiment and places the prince’s breakfast tray in its usual spot: a table, scratched from years of loving use and covered with ink stains from messy fingers, under one of the larger windows in the room. Tiny fingerprints seem to wave at Jean from its surface and he can almost smile at the thought of a young Marco learning to write there.

Marco finishes up with his coat and takes out a pair of boots, slipping them on and kneeling to tie the laces. Jean looks up from setting out a raspberry cheesecake scone at the  _docile_  tones of what sounds like someone being smothered.

“I see Master Jaeger is still  _here_ …”

Now that he knows where to look, it’s obvious. Eren’s mess of untamable hair sticks out like a sore thumb among the pillows atop Marco’s bed and a tan foot pokes out from the tangle of blankets below. Jean’s simple irritation at Eren Jaeger’s alleged mooching is slowly blooming into a full-on hatred. Every day for the past  _week_ , Jean doesn’t think he’s seen Eren leave Marco’s side for more than an hour.  It’s utterly ridiculous. Who does this slacker think he is, lying around snoring the day away?

Marco, however, sees nothing wrong with it and shrugs lightheartedly.

“Throw a pillow at him. He knows he needs to wake up.”

Marco’s casual demeanor is welcome, but Jean knows better than to succumb to it. He is working and must not cross the class lines. Marco is a prince, and underneath the title of knight, Jean is still but a peasant. A peasant with a big mouth who has already been punched by most of his friends, and he doesn’t need to have worse happen because he mouthed off to the wrong person.

“Tempting, sir, but I’m afraid assaulting your attendant with plush bed things is something I cannot do.” He finishes setting out the contents of the tray and pulls a chair out for the prince to sit down, moving to stand a respectable distance away. Marco takes it upon himself to grab a pillow from the floor and throw it at the man sawing logs in his bed before sitting down.

Eren sits up with an undignified snort and blinks blearily at nothing.

“Breakfast, Eren,” Marco gently urges. Jean narrows his eyes when Eren crawls from the bed—completely disheveled and drool drying on his cheek—and stumbles to the table before flopping into the seat nearest Marco. The prince pats his head in what can only be affection and offers him a slice of toast. “Jean, have you been delivered my schedule yet?”

Jean reaches into the hidden pocket of his uniform and extracts the scripted paper the head of house passed to him before coming upstairs.

“You have several appointments to keep today, Your Highness.”

Marco nods along, nibbling on his scone. “Read them to me.”

“A consult with the castle bookkeeper concerning the reorganization of the shelves and treatment of historical tomes.” As far as Jean knows, the bookkeeper is just going to whine again over how much she dislikes the new sorting system. He’s had to listen to the old bat moan over breakfast all week about it and he truly pities the prince for having to listen to it today. Not that he’ll say so. That would be rude.  “Then lunch with your sister in the garden.”

Marco holds up a finger, signaling Jean to pause. “Which garden?”

Jean blink and then tries to sort out which one the schedule can possibly mean. The name of one of the  _six_  palace gardens are written in an elegant script he can barely pronounce, let alone understand. His only saving grace is they’re all thematic, and the one listed looks faintly like _violette_.  “The purple garden, sire.”

“Oh. I like that garden.” Marco smiles. Beside him, Eren bites into a crescent and makes a small noise of agreement before allowing his head to rest on Marco’s shoulder.

“Then you have the afternoon cleared for games with one Lord Ian Dietrich, followed by dinner with your family.”

Marco stops chewing, eyes narrowing as he stares off to an unknown corner of the room. “Oh, _today_  is the day Ian is here?”

“Yes, sir.” Jean nods, folding the schedule back and tucking it into its pocket.

Marco’s face twists, lips puckering as he thinks to himself. Jean isn’t quite sure what can be going through the prince’s head, but he doesn’t ask. Marco is odd like that sometimes. It’s one of those things Jean’s just begun to notice from being close to Marco all day.

“Hm. So soon. Eren—”

Eren lifts his head, wiping jam from his cheek. “Already cleared. ‘M ready to go when you are.”

“Clothes, Eren,” Marco chides.

Eren blinks. Then he finally looks down at himself and the wrinkled silks he wore to bed. “…right.”

Marco nudges him and Eren stands, giving a halfhearted wave before slowly padding away to wherever he keeps his belongings. Jean isn’t quite sure. He’s half-convinced Eren has moved into the prince’s room completely. It wouldn’t surprise him, since those sleeping silks look closer to  _Marco’s_  size.

Marco, too used to his friend’s slowness in getting ready, stays put to finish breakfast. As he digs into his eggs and toast, he continues what he has done all week: attempt to engage Jean in casual conversation.

“Jean, have you met Ian?”

Moments like this, alone with a smiling angel that looks radiant even with sleep still clinging to his eyes, Jean feels his chest flutter again. How lovely it would be to give in and grow closer. How amazing, the fantasy of coming close enough to embrace…

But, alas, he cannot. He didn’t spend his entire childhood working only to blow it all now.

“…no, Sire. Lord Dietrich is above me.”

Jean watches Marco carefully. Every day during these attempts to talk, His Majesty’s face takes on that same oddness Jean saw the day of his selection. By all means, Marco  _looks_  normal. His radiant smile is in place. He radiates kindness as always.

But something… Something about Marco’s eyes makes the little gears in Jean’s head turn, even if they lead nowhere.

“A shame. He served as a page for some time before deciding to become a scholar instead. His uncle is Duke Zackley, you know.” Marco sips at his cup of tea, eyes boring into Jean’s from above the rim with interest.

“…sir, I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

That odd little smile returns full force. Jean aches to find out what it means.

“Just a thought. Maybe with a little effort, you’ll come to like Ian a bit. Make some friends.”

Jean sighs. He isn’t sure he ever will understand the mind of the royal in front of him.

“I’m only here to do my job, sir.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Jean does  _not_  like Ian a bit. He does not like Ian a  _lot,_  actually. In fact, he would rather put up with Eren’s flagrant mooching for eternity than attempt to become friends with Ian, let alone hold a friendly conversation.

Ian Dietrich is, in the kindest words Jean can muster, a bit of a pompous ass. It is terribly obvious the man was born with a silver spoon on his tongue and bags of gold in his crib. The fabric making his clothes, which are adorned in ridiculous patterns that hurt Jean’s eyes, shines brightly in the sun, and Ian went on for a good five minutes about how this is the latest fashion in Sina among the nobility. Ian apparently found that out on holiday.

His holiday in Sina, by the way, which is mentioned twenty times in the short walk from the palace to the section of the lawn holding the game equipment. If Jean had thought the bookkeeper’s nagging over organization was bad, Ian is decidedly worse. The meticulously trimmed hedge animals even look pained as story after story is poured from loose lips.

Jean doesn’t understand how Marco puts up with it. Marco smiles, laughs along, hanging on to every word of the thousands of pointless things Ian has to say about Sina and its solid gold bathtubs in its palace. He somehow manages to be genuinely interested in all the pointless things this man has to say. Not even Eren can maintain a polite interest. It’s plainly written on his face just a few minutes in that he’s as bored as Jean.

Eren ends up joining Jean in the sparse shade of a decorative tree, watching the prince and Ian chatter while leaning against his croquet mallet.

He isn’t missing much, really.

“Ian, as outlandish as Sina tends to get in its revelry, I highly doubt King Reiss put his private parts anywhere near a pig.” Marco lines up his shot, forcing his ball through the hoop with a hard tap and smiling to himself. Jean can’t tell just how good this is; he has no idea how to play croquet.

Ian rocks back and forth on his heel before hitting his own ball. It veers off into the grass. “It doesn’t matter if it’s  _true_ , Bodt. It only matters everyone knows about it.”

“ _Tsk tsk_. Spreading such nasty rumors.” Marco leans against his mallet and wiggles his eyebrows at Ian. Eren makes a retching motion. Jean resists the urge to join him.

Ian rises to Marco’s banter with a flourish. “You’ve seen how the people of Sina think of their king. They are more than overjoyed at the idea he may have gotten it on with a pig.”

Marco laughs. It isn’t the pleasant giggle that makes Jean’s knees weak; it’s more of a…hearty chuckle. It doesn’t sound right, especially coming from Marco.

Marco drums his thumb lightly against the handle of his mallet, eyeing Ian with a raised brow. “And you enjoy this? Spreading false ideas about the monarchy?”

“ _Other_  monarchies, perhaps,” Ian replies playfully.

“And what would you say of me?” Marco strikes a pose of bravado, welcoming Ian’s slander with outstretched arms.

Ian pretends to think long and hard, humming as he rubs his chin and stares at the posing prince with scrutiny. Jean doesn’t look, but he can feel Eren roll his eyes. “Marco Bodt, Prince of Jinae…sleeps with a stuffed bear.”

“Hrk.” Eren jolts and makes a hiccup-like noise. Jean looks at him curiously, but Eren slaps a hand over his mouth and fights a grin under his palm.

Ian hears, though, and turns with an expression Jean knows well enough to be offense. “Oh? Do you have something to say, physician?”

Eren manages to hold back the laughter trying desperately to escape. He breathes, lowering his hand, humor still evident in his voice when he replies, “Nothing. But Marco sleeps with two bears. Truly you have no understanding of our dear prince.”

Marco laughs in response and it sounds much more like the tinkling sound Jean is used to hearing. “Nonsense. I would sleep with no less than three.”

“Right you are. Only three could possibly satisfy your greed.” Eren bows his head in mock apology and the two crack up in a fit of laughter.

Jean and Ian don’t get the joke. Jean is fine with that. Ian, however, makes a face and hits his mallet just a little too hard against one of the balls at his feet. He turns away from the prince and lines up another shot with red in his cheeks.

His next choice of conversation is paired with a rather hard hit to one of the croquet balls. “Hm. Don’t you have things to  _do,_  physician? I’ve heard many things about the business of Jinae’s famed doctor. His disciple should be up to his neck in work.”

Marco visibly stiffens. Not much, but enough Jean can see a slight narrowing of eyes before the usual content smile worms its way back to visibility.

Jean finds he doesn’t really want to listen to this anymore. He’s never seen anyone actually point Eren out in front of the prince. He’s never even heard of such a thing. As much as he finds Eren’s legendary leeching deplorable, if the prince wants to keep him around, no one has any right to question it. Does Ian know he may have crossed a line?

If Ian does, he doesn’t show it. He looks rather smug with himself.

“The  _actual_  physician can handle our sick just fine on his own. It’s the sunny season anyhow. Eren has more time than ever on his hands.” Marco hits his ball hard enough to send it hurtling through a hoop and coming to a stop a fair distance away. He hefts his mallet up with pride and Eren claps for him from the shade.

“My sterile and agile hands.”

Marco nods, as if to say, “Of course,” before turning back to Ian and watching him line up a shot. “Speaking of work, though… Ian, what  _are_ you doing these days?”

Jean wonders if this is how the nobility insult each other. Somehow that question feels as if it was meant to put someone in their place.

Once again, if it is, Ian does not notice.

“Whatever the gods will me to do. I went away to a university in the south, did some reading. I’ve become very interested in philosophy.” He punctuates his statement, one dripping in self-pride and superiority, with a tap of his mallet.

Marco tilts his head, staring down at the little ball as it makes its way across the grass. “Philosophy?”

“In a broad sense, I suppose. Pondering the state of the world. Looking to brighter minds to see what sense they can make of the chaos.” Ian sounds star struck, as if in wonder of his own topic. Eren rolls his eyes again and only Jean’s iron professionalism prevents him from doing the same.

“We are in a time of peace, Ian. I see no chaos in our future.”

Ian raises his finger, wagging it in Marco’s direction. “Ah, but chaos is everywhere. Even on the slowest days, chaos is still the natural order of the universe and somewhere it is wreaking havoc as it is wont to do.”

Marco makes a little noise, pursing his lips. “The Disaster Theory, am I correct?”

“I see you know of it.” Ian smiles brightly.

“I may have skimmed it. An interesting read,” Marco replies nonchalantly and shrugs.

“Isn’t it?” Ian all but wiggles in place, simmering with excitement over this new topic.

Jean knows the book Ian’s talking about. He’s read it; it was garbage. Jean’s studied actual philosophy, even if it was only a small amount, and that book is just the ranting of a cynic saying the world is always burning.

Something about the little tic in Marco’s smile tells Jean the prince has the same opinion. But for the sake of politeness, Marco doesn’t say so. “Though the author was arrested and hung for attempted arson, so that spoiled the book as a whole for me.”

Ian laughs, allowing it to fade to a happy sigh as he twists his mallet around in his hand. “That only makes it more _fascinating_  to me. The ranting of twisted minds is something to behold.”

“Truly,” Marco replies flatly. He rolls his shoulder, groaning at the feeling of his muscles tensing, before his eyes land on Jean and Eren in the shade. His smile picks back up tenfold. “Jean, have you read anything interesting?”

Jean startles. So far, with all of Marco’s attempts at casual conversation, they’ve been alone. He asks Jean questions in the morning. He has mostly one-sided conversations over tea. He pokes and prods and nitpicks at the fine line between guard and charge, tries to find a hole to wiggle through so he can engage Jean like one of his little noble friends—

But it has always been when they were alone, or Eren was the only one around.

Jean flushes just a bit. Having attention on himself is nothing new, but…something about the prince engaging him while with company is too much.

He manages to quell his nerves and reply, though. A soft, “Not lately, sir.”

Marco frowns. “I suppose the Guard  _would_ keep you busy…”

This perks Ian’s interest. He halfway turns to look at Jean through squinting eyes, summing him up in his uniform before staring blatantly at the insignia on his breast.

“The  _Royal_  Guard?”

Jean doesn’t know what to take from his tone. He glances toward Eren, then Marco, for some hint but finds nothing. “Yes, Lord Dietrich.”

“Pft. I’m glad I quit in my page years, then. Better to be filling my mind with knowledge than standing around watching games of croquet.” Ian turns away and hits a ball.

Jean finds himself twisting his lips in disgust. How  _dare_  this blue blooded  _pig_?

But, alas.

He  _is_ working. Professionalism is key.

“Your wisdom is unmatched, sir.”

 

* * *

 

In the world’s current state, caught between the nostalgia of the days of dragons and the sudden changes that alter how even the poorest man lives through innovation, the Bodt castle is easily a testament to the fantasy of childhood stories. Its grounds are massive. Its lawns are trimmed to perfection and decorated with shrub animals and exotic flowers of all kinds. Six gardens line the grounds and each one is themed to provide a different experience to the senses, from the soothing sleepiness of the violet garden to the posh propriety of the rose garden.

Walking through it every day provides only more beauty that fuels the image in Jean’s rose colored glasses. The ceilings are elaborate in paint and carvings. Statues older than Jinae itself line hallways. Paintings from legendary artists decorate walls all over, bringing to life the noble house of Bodt and all those who have married into it.

For five hundred years this castle has been the center of everything that makes Jinae a strong country.

For five hundred years it has been witness to secrets that history will never know of.

For five hundred years it has watched over the family that kept the people of Jinae safe and provided for.

Five hundred years of conflicts, births, deaths, and being torn apart and rebuilt from the inside out.

It’s enough to make a man truly believe the family housed inside is as golden as they are described to be. That the king and queen, the great leaders of the nation, are the pure and saintly figures the common man swears they are. Watching them all rule from within the walls only seems to hammer in the bias the years have spread through rumors and exaggerations.

But there is a portrait. Jean passes it often enough to count it as a landmark in the many endless hallways. It is a portrait hand painted by an impressionist from the coast, a man who produced hundreds of paintings before his death and who gained favor of the nobility and permission to paint their gardens out of good will. One of his final pieces was a picture of the queen and her children.

The queen sits regal, poised with absolute elegance. Though her face is slimmer, it is easy to see where the prince and his sister gain their looks from. In her arms is Princess Mabel, wrapped tightly with her sleeping face barely hinting toward the viewer. Standing next to them posed in his formals is Prince Marco.

Jean notices something about this painting after a while. It’s enough to make him pause and look back. He steps closer, squinting at the layers of oil on canvas, trying for weeks to decipher what it is that leaves him so unsettled.

Something about the look on Prince Marco’s face just gives him the gut feeling something is terribly wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about being Marco’s guard is it becomes very obvious very quickly staying quiet and stoic is not an option.

The prince is a man that seeks to be friendly with  _everyone_. Now, Jean has heard of  _and_  seen how blue bloods treat their servants. He’s seen maids yelled at until they cry because they had the audacity to meet their master’s eye. He’s seen men fired over small transgressions. In his page years he had spilled some water once getting a drink for one of the ladies of the palace and he had been forced to shovel the stables for a week as punishment. Servants are merely labor in uniforms. They aren’t meant to be treated as people. They exist to perform orders to the letter and their mistakes are signs of incompetence and deserve punishment. That was the view they all seemed to share.

Marco throws it all out the window.

Marco says  _hello_  and  _good morning_  to every maid he comes across. He knows the butlers by name. He asks the gardener how his family is doing. He sends his compliments to the castle chef at every meal. They all reply with genuine friendliness and a strange form of casualty toward him. They still bow, they still call him by his royal title, but they also aren’t _afraid_  of him. They love him all the more because he goes out of his way to establish he thinks of them as people. He respects them for their work.

Jean finds it harder and harder to remain the stone faced guard he is expected to be when Marco is constantly asking him questions. The idea of being seen as more than a mere hired hand digs its claws into his mind and refuses to let go.

_“What is your favorite color?”_

_“Do you ever go to the theatre?”_

_“How long did it take you to learn how to wield that sword?”_

It’s always at random moments. Looking over reports Marco needs to sign off on, planning for the visit of another member of the court, being fitted for a new formal ensemble—Marco will turn to him, do his little lip-pucker-thinking-face, and ask Jean a question so mundane it somehow blows Jean’s mind.

Weeks pass like this. Weeks of watching this angel of a human being treat every person he comes across as if they have value melts Jean’s heart. And his resistance. Slowly he finds himself answering some back.

_“Gold.”_

_“No, I don’t like the crowds in the public seating.”_

_“Many years with many mistakes along the way.”_

Every time he does, Marco beams at him with dimples in his cheeks and Jean’s heart flies to his throat.

 

* * *

 

The prince’s birthday is in the early summer. The weeks leading up to it is a flurry of planners, outfit fittings, samplings of everything from food to preferred napkins, and millions of other tiny details that leave everyone’s head spinning. Marco tends to collapse on his bed when he makes his way back to his room at night and more than once Eren keels over on one of the plush sofas. Jean begins thinking in banner colors and cake flavors instead of words. There is a small reprieve in the days before the party where the planners take over completely, but the exhaustion clings with a ferocity Jean hasn’t felt since his early training years.

In the end, though, the party itself is nice.

Jean has only experienced the lavish balls and celebrations of the nobility as an unseen servant. As a page, he was assigned to tend to the ladies of the castle should they call on him. As a squire, his purpose was to do as his chosen knight asked. Celebrations were only relevant in he was often tasked with fetching things and staying out of sight. He was not of the upper class; therefore, these events were not for him.

Being on the other side for once is something he isn’t sure he can get used to. Especially the clothes. His uniform is gone, replaced with his cleaned formals and a sword with a more ornamental handle design. His hair is slicked back with a product smelling faintly of roses. His boots are shining so brightly he can see his reflection in them. Compared to the other guests, he’s a polished rock. Around him, women wear dresses that sparkle like stars and most likely cost more than he does as a human being. Men in silks and suits from faraway lands and high end tailors mingle with jeweled rings glimmering from their fingers.

Nothing seems to beat Marco, however. Decorated in stunning shades of blue, gold buttons glimmering beautifully in the light of the ballroom, a short cape artfully draped across his form, he is easily the most stunning visage in the room. The small silver crown adorning his head is a halo that almost makes Jean cover his eyes, lest the image burn him.

Of course, that’s just his opinion. His melodramatic opinion. His _very_ melodramatic opinion that leaves his heart thumping so hard in his chest it feels like the drums of war.

Eren glances at Jean every few minutes after Marco’s grand entrance, smirking to himself and laughing into his hand under the guise of drinking. Jean is sure he hears, “Draw a picture, it’ll last you longer—” but for the sake of _not_  punching the prince’s closest confidant in the face, he pretends he doesn’t. He ebbs away the anger by entertaining fantasies of spilling wine on the green silk vest hidden away under Eren’s formal summer jacket.

Jean isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to be  _doing_ , anyway. He doesn’t know any of these guests. Well, he knows Ian, but he would rather jam one of the million pieces of silverware laid out in his eye than talk to Ian. Ian is not an option if only to keep his sanity intact.  Marco makes rounds to each guest and thanks them for coming, something he tells Jean not to follow him for, Eren vanishes at regular intervals only to reappear with finger foods, and Jean…

Jean stands to the side, watching guests dance to the music and wondering if he can get away with leaving early.

Until he feels a tap on his shoulder and sees his first familiar face of the night. A startling vision clad in shades of red, with shiny dark hair pinned into delicate curls around her face.

“You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

“Mikasa!” Jean nearly slips back into the wall, straightening himself and feigning a casual lean that fools absolutely no one. Mikasa Ackerman, his former unrequited flame and sort-of friend, somehow reduces him back to his awkward teenage years with nothing more than a simple touch. Regardless, he’s happy to see her. Even if the sight of her in a dress makes his throat a bit tight.  “What are you doing here?”

Mikasa doesn’t point out his awkwardness. As usual. She offers the tiniest upturn of lips and readjusts a sheer red wrap around her arms, turning to watch the crowds as Jean was doing before she came over.

“Personal invitation. Plus, as heiress of House Ackerman, I’m obligated to at  _least_  four social events every year.”

“At least four?” Jean snorts.

“At least four. Might as well spend one on someone I get along with,” Mikasa replies.

Jean knows she has obligations, being an heiress and all, but she’s always kept it so detached from her work. No one ever really brought it up and she never alluded to it. No one would notice at all if it hadn’t been for her taking time off around the social season for parties like these. She resembles the best of the other women here, but her expression as she watches them dance—Jean can see it clearly. She doesn’t really want to be here.

“I heard you got promoted.”

 Jean blinks. Of course. Mikasa had been away the day Marco chose him. She would have found out later. He adjusts himself so he’s back to standing normally and his eyes rove to stare at how interesting the floor is.

“Personal bodyguard,” Jean coughs out awkwardly, rubbing at his neck.

Mikasa doesn’t see it. She keeps her attention glued to the crowd. Out in the masses of the rich, men spill champagne, women laugh over decorative fans and gloved hands, and somewhere the tinkling laughter of the prince dissolves into the sounds of the music.

“That’s a very sought after position.”

Jean scoffs.

“I couldn’t imagine that. If I stay here, I may very well never see a battle again and be doomed to watch the upper class drown in their own money.”

Mikasa’s eyes twitch toward him, subtly staring at his face before returning to the dance floor. A lady in pink has convinced Marco to dance with her, and the prince has a content smile on his face as he dips her in time to the music. The excited giggles she’s giving off can be heard over the chatter of the crowd.

“That’s  _why_. Most of the people who want the job want it because they think it takes no effort.” A servant passes by with a tray of champagne and Mikasa snatches a flute for herself, taking a sip. She looks as regal as everyone else in the room then. Her sword calluses against the fine glass seem to be the only remnant of the soldier she is left to see.

Jean watches her for a moment. In all the time he’s known Mikasa, she’s had the heart of a fighter. From the time they met each other as children in training, she’s been the very example their instructors told him to strive for. Her victories are on par with her infamous cousin. Jean has spent years at this point fighting her to hone his skills and he still isn’t anywhere near close to beating her. She’s the closest thing to the perfect soldier he’s ever seen.

But in all this time, Jean has never actually found out how much Mikasa invests in the code of honor they’re all supposed to abide by. He supposes she does, as she never seems to blow her money on frivolities and reacts with only the humblest of thanks when commoners bring up her service, but…her words match those of the squires he came to hate in his teenage years. The ones that saw past the old laws of chivalry the modern code is based on and only saw the personal benefits.

Her eyes remain on the crowd, and Jean remembers her gaze has always had a certain sadness. Perhaps she’s always been this cynical and he just never noticed.

“Do  _you_  think it takes no effort?”

“I’ve known Marco since we were small.” She grips her drink tighter, swirling its contents and gazing down into the flurry of bubbles as if they help her think. That sadness seems to expand and consume her for the briefest of seconds before she tilts her head high and answers him fully. “I think that…this job  _looks_  easy, but it has challenges not many can rise to. But someone like you? You’re perfect for it. Congratulations.”

“Wow.” Jean isn’t sure how to reply to that. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just been a glorified personal assistant so far. “Um…thanks.”

Mikasa places her hand on his shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze.

“I mean it.”

Somehow, he knows she does.

The party continues to chatter on around them as they observe a comfortable silence. Another dance begins and Marco carefully slips away back into the crowds. A lady Jean remembers having tea with the queen some weeks back leans uncomfortably close to a man who resembles the head of Jinae’s trade system. Ian appears and reappears in various spots giving shifty eyes to everyone around him and talking to various men of old money.

Princess Mabel graces them all with her presence, even. She walks peacefully among the masses, stern face focused, greeting guest after guest with absolute poise.

Untamable brown hair pops up between a crowd of suits and Eren reappears, tucking something into the pockets of his jacket before he catches Mikasa’s eye and waves. She waves back with a small smile. Jean is sure he sees another hint of that sadness present. This time in both of them.

It’s gone before it can really register, though. Eren somehow manages to hook on to a young lady in yellow, who laughs at the attention, and the two of them twirl onto the dance floor with a flourish. Mikasa gives a small noise that only faintly sounds like a laugh.

“Eren looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“Huh?” Jean turns to look out at the floor, where Eren is smiling down at the dark skinned girl he’s currently charming to death. “Oh. Yeah.”

“I hope he doesn’t get into the cake before it’s cut. He has no patience.”

Jean can’t help but laugh.

“You talk like he’s done it before.”

“All of Marco’s parties and half of mine. He was terrible about it when we were kids.” Mikasa speaks with a fondness he isn’t sure he’s ever heard her use before. Something tender. Something loving. It’s the softest he’s ever heard her speak. The humor he felt before fades away quickly, replaced with something he can’t quite place.

“So…you’ve known each other that long?”

“Eren was my friend before he ever met Marco. Why do you ask?” Mikasa sips from her drink with a small shrug.

“You never mentioned it before.”

“I haven’t?” She pulls her glass away, confusion etching her features before she schools her expression back to its usual coolness. She seems genuinely surprised. “Well…Eren is family to me. And I’m family to him.”

Mikasa twists her fingers in her dress, thumb softly feeling the fabric as her mind begins to go somewhere else. She and Jean both look back out to the dancers where Eren is teaching his partner a silly little jig that sticks out horribly among the proper swirling movements of the other guests.

Mikasa’s voice becomes soft again, a more definite smile forming on her face as she watches him.

“A lot of people underestimate him. But Eren is a very important person.”

“He’s a goof,” Jean replies halfheartedly.

“Of course he is. That’s why he’s important.” Mikasa softly jabs him with her elbow, a friendly gesture she rarely indulges in. “I feel like you’ll understand soon enough.”

For its intended softness, it still knocks Jean unsteady on his feet and he frowns as he rubs at his arm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll find out,” Mikasa answers cryptically. She downs the rest of her drink and begins to step away from the wall. “I should make my rounds and get it over with. I’ll see you, Jean.”

Jean is content to let her go, but a thought strikes him. All his time is spent with Marco now, and as lovely as that is, he’d…he’d really like more time like this. With someone he knows. He catches her attention before she vanishes into the crowd and awkwardly shuffles in place.

“Um—spar? Would you like to again? Sometime soon?”

Mikasa blinks. Then, to Jean’s surprise, she nods in agreement. “…I’d like that. I’ll check for your next day off. Bye, Jean.”

Mikasa is absorbed by the masses then, vanishing into a multicolor sea of elegance Jean doesn’t belong in. He’s left with his hand half raised in a wave goodbye, utterly dumbstruck. This was probably the most intimate conversation they’ve ever had. The most intimate, but he’s still left wholly unsure as to whom Mikasa really is under it all.

In some way, he may just be fine with that.

“Bye, Mikasa.”

 

* * *

  

Eren stares. A lot.

Jean develops a sixth sense for when Eren is staring at him, and it tingles near constantly. Those intense green eyes burrow into his skin and refuse to release their grip. He stares when Jean enters a room, he stares when Jean leaves, and he especially stares when he and Marco are having secret whispering conversations. Eren’s eyes are honed to Jean’s presence like a hunter tracking its mark.

Jean isn’t sure how he feels about it. Eren stares at everyone. It’s one of those things he noticed after getting used to the routine of following Marco around all day.

Eren does it a lot more than Jean expected, because everyone is so busy focusing on the prince they don’t notice his companion cataloging everything going on around him. Every time someone so much as twitches their hand, Eren notices. Eren passes the news along in whispers and gestures so seamlessly it took Jean several days of intense Eren-watching to figure it all out.

Sometimes Eren seems aware Jean is aware, and he doesn’t even make an attempt to cover his tracks.

At one point, he stares Jean in the face and winks playfully.

 

* * *

 

Jean’s first on-the-job injury comes from a broken window.

He had been escorting the prince to his next event of the day. A meeting with some noble from the west who wanted to run a new trading plan by Marco for proofing before presenting it to the king and queen. The breaking sound was faint, but enough to catch their attention as their march to the chosen meeting place halted and they gaped at the sky for a source. Jean saw the shards coming first.

He pushed Eren and Marco out of the way and ended up getting hit instead, his arms taking the most damage from covering his head. If he had been just a few more inches to the left, the thicker planes of glass would have impaled him.

The pain was slow to register. Jean had made sure the prince was okay before Marco’s eyes widened and in an almost manic voice pointed out he was hurt. Jean’s attempts to assure the prince he  _was fine, this is okay, this is part of the job_  fell on deaf ears as Marco ordered Eren to take Jean back to his room. What followed was a confusing journey through the castle that ended with him being shoved into Marco’s pristine bathroom and told to strip his shirt.

In all honesty, this is the most serious he’s ever seen Eren. It’s kind of scary.

Eren shoves his clothes away and orders him to sit on the engraved marble steps that lead to the oversized bathtub, and he threatens bodily harm if he moves from his spot. Eren leaves without another word or instruction, leaving him alone.

Jean sits there for who-knows-how-long before Marco comes in, worrying his lip and all but running over to Jean’s side.

“Are you—?”

“Your highness, I’ve had worse,” Jean assures. Marco’s hands hover awkwardly around him, avoiding touching, and Jean can’t help but think about the schedule this entire incident has thrown them off of. “Sir, you’re missing your meeting with—”

“He can  _wait_. You have glass embedded in you that needs extracting,” Marco interrupts.

“You have an afternoon with Lord Dietrich planned after, sir. You shouldn’t show up with my blood on you.” Jean can’t help but fidget under all the attention Marco is directing at him. He’s supposed to be a guard; this is part of the job. Marco shouldn’t concern himself with the wellbeing of an idiot who didn’t think to dodge the glass himself.

But no, Marco fixes him with a look of stern concern and makes it clear he will be staying.

“Ian can wait as well.”

Jean sighs in exasperation as his blood drips on to the clean marble. Damn this prince. Damn his kindness. Damn the way his concern is  _doing things_  to Jean’s emotions.  “You shouldn’t. I’m not worth—”

“Don’t even finish that thought.”

“I’m back.” Eren throws open the door and comes in, wearing a white shirt Jean doesn’t remember seeing before and holding things under his arms. In one hand is a leather bag. In the other are two large bowls. “Marco, I need hot water, stat.”

“On it.” Marco nods and hops up, going to the knobs for the tub and turning one of them until water begins to fall. Eren places the bowls next to him and then turns to Jean, setting his bag down and leaning down to inspect the damage. Eren’s got an expression so focused, so intense, Jean finds himself becoming a bit nervous under the scrutiny.

“Um—”

Eren reaches out and gently adjusts his arms, avoiding touching any of the bloodied areas.

“Keep your arms limp. Try not to tighten your muscles and keep your breathing under control. If you get worked up, your blood will flow faster and we need to keep the bleeding to a minimum.”

“Okay…” Jean nods. Only a hint of the tips of Eren’s fingers touch him, moving his arms to a position that feels a bit more comfortable. Eren seems satisfied with that, rolling up his sleeves until half of his arms are visible. He opens his bag and takes a few objects out before leaving Jean’s side as quickly as he came and turning the knob for the sink.

“Now  _stay there_  until I’m done.”

“What are you even doing?” Jean cranes his head a little to see, watching in interest as Eren tests the water temperature before grabbing a thick bar of soap and scrubbing at his hands and forearms.

“What does it look like? I’m cleaning. It’s the first rule of treating anyone.” Eren scrubs at his skin ferociously, covering his arms in suds before rinsing and beginning again. And again. And again. His hands turn pink under the water but he keeps  _going._  Jean can’t help but find this situation a little ridiculous. He took an arrow tip to his calf a few years back and he was just told to pick it out with a knife. This is just an overreaction.

“It’s just glass—” Jean tries to assure.

“It’s an  _open wound_. Feel free to walk out of here and die of infection in a week,” Eren bites back. His tone, combined with the intensity in his eyes when he glances back at Jean’s bleeding form by the tub, has Jean clicking his mouth shut in shame.

“…I’ll be good.”

“I thought so.” Eren nods.

Marco calls their attention from the tub, as the water pouring freely into it now is steaming. Marco tests it with his hand and pulls it away with a small  _ouch_.

“Hot water is ready.”

“Fill one of the bowls and leave the other empty.” Eren orders without looking. He deems his hands finally clean enough and uses the bone of his elbow to shut the faucet off, holding his hands aloft as he turns around.  “Marco, mouth.”

“Got it.” Marco makes sure the bowl is filled with hot water, carefully setting it near Jean on the marble steps before turning the tub off and making his way over. He grabs a swatch of white linen from the counter and carefully ties it around Eren’s mouth. He tugs once, twice, silently asking if it’s tight enough and getting a nod in response.

“Can’t you tie it yourself?” Jean asks from the floor.

“Germs, Jean. I have to minimize chances of infection and some of that glass looks deep.” Eren’s voice is slightly muffled by the linens. Marco finds another swatch and ties it around his head, pulling his hair away from his face. Eren nods again and the prince comes back over to Jean’s side, pulling things from the bag and putting things in place. The empty bowl is placed in front of him. Bottles of various substances are put in a neat row. Bandages dot the steps, along with a small stitching kit.

Jean’s eyes widen a bit when Marco rolls out a surgical kit. Some of the implements inside leave him very worried over the continued existence of his arms.

Eren fixes himself in front of Jean, nudging the bowl closer with his foot before grabbing one of the bottles and unscrewing the top. “Okay, now, point the glass upwards and hold your arms over the bowl.”

“Um…” Jean hesitates and then does so.

Eren gently grabs one of his arms and holds the bottle over it before meeting his eyes.

“All right…this is going to hurt a lot.”

“Wait, wha—? OW. OW OW OW OW—” Jean nearly throws Eren off. Eren tips the bottle and the liquid inside pours onto his wounds, exploding in  _fire_. The pain is intense, every small cut made by every shard of glass screaming in agony as Eren repeats the process with the other arm. He can see his wounds  _sizzling_  in a fit of bubbles. “GODS ABOVE FUCKING _SHIT_ —”

“Good, good.” Eren ignores his pain completely and puts the bottle away, grabbing a clean plush towel from the basket laid out next to the tub. “Now lay your arms on the towel, wounds facing upwards.”

“I swear to the gods—” Jean moves to bat Eren’s hands away, lest he bring more pain, but Eren leans away.

“Don’t touch me. I’m sterile. Now lay your arms down.” Eren uses that  _voice_  again, and Jean finds himself complying.

Eren picks a little tool from the surgical kit. Gently, he brings it to the largest shard still stuck in Jean’s skin. He pauses and his eyes flick up to Jean’s face.

“If you need something to bite on, tell me.”

And he begins.

Picking.

And picking.

And picking.

And picking some more.

Eren remains completely silent, expertly extracting the little bits and larger shards clinging to Jean’s skin. Jean’s arms throb from it all, feeling overheated thanks to whatever it was Eren used to disinfect him. He hisses and makes little noises every time Eren yanks a little too hard or the edges of his cuts are pulled by the tool. Marco, overly aware of Eren’s demands to minimize germs, doesn’t come too close but he gives Jean sympathetic looks.

After having a longer than expected piece removed, Jean finally feels the need to point something out.

“You’re very serious about this.”

“I’m a doctor,” Eren replies dryly, allowing the shard to drop with the others into the empty bowl.

“No, I mean…” Jean sighs. Weeks ago this would have been crossing a big line. But knowing Marco, knowing how Eren doesn’t seem to care at all for politeness and professionalism, he feels a bit safer going forward. “You never act this serious. About anything.”

Eren pulls a small chip out and begins examining his skin for anything he may have missed. “Have you ever been in battle, Jean?”

“Of course.” Jean blinks dumbly. Eren dabs away a bit of blood, dipping more linen into the bowl of water and washing away the red from Jean’s skin.

“Do you joke around when the world is going to hell around you?”

Jean tenses.

“…no. No, I don’t.”

“Medicine is a battle, Jean.” Eren gently wipes away dried blood from Jean’s wrist, pausing to grab his tool again and take out a tiny shard that barely glimmered in the light. His voice is grim, experience giving it weight and painting a portrait for Jean to see in his own mind.  “One small mistake and lives are lost. I hold survival in my hands and messing up because I wasn’t paying attention would mean losing my patient.”

Eren’s words are harsh compared to the gentle touches he gives cleaning Jean’s arms. He’s methodical. Dedicated. Jean wonders how often Eren does this. How many patients Eren has lost. He knew Eren had studied his father’s profession, but the image that had been branded into his mind of the slacker who didn’t do anything with the knowledge was fading faster than ever.

His revelation only manifests as a simple, “That’s very deep.”

“I’ve been a student of medicine since I was a kid. It would be criminal not to respect my own craft,” Eren says solemnly.

Jean can respect that. He respects that a lot.

Eren picks as much out as he can and cleans his arms once again before applying more disinfectant and a strange substance “to help the wounds close faster.” Jean’s arms are bandaged with a mention to check back in a few weeks for anything left over wiggling to the surface.

He receives a shot of painkillers, and Eren gives him an honest to god smile as he finally lowers the linens covering his face.

“You can take the sofa if you want. You have about five minutes until this stuff knocks you on your ass.”

Jean’s stomach flips. He wants to blame it on the medication, but the shine of Eren’s eyes distract him from finishing his own excuse. He lies down to sleep it all off and as he drifts into the medically induced nether, he thinks Eren is actually kind of cute when he’s working hard.

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Marco works past sundown. It’s to be expected. He’s a busy man with the future of his country on his shoulders. Some days his work consists of long meetings with men three times his age. Others it consists of corresponding with the heads of trade. Even more involve visits to the archmage-slash-experimental-inventor Hanji, who lives in an exploding house outside castle grounds due to the frequency of their experiments causing property damage.

Then there are the days filled with paperwork. Jean can sympathize with how much Marco does not like these days. Jean’s desk in his own room is beginning to swim in formal reports and letters from his mother, and Marco sometimes gets hit by that tenfold. The prince will be lost for hours to stacks of paper and his favorite pen, slowly succumbing to tension headaches as his eyes grow exhausted.

On days like these, Jean begins doing what his mother does when he works himself too hard at home. He brings Marco tea.

Marco is always grateful. The first time, he was so surprised by the gesture he only blinked stupidly for a minute before launching into an excited series of thanks. Now he gives a tired smile and a nod, allowing his exhaustion to show. The circles under his eyes increase as summer goes on and Marco continues working on projects Jean doesn’t even know the full scale of. All he knows is sometimes Marco vanishes into his chosen study for hours and Eren vacates the area, knowing he isn’t going to be able to catch Marco’s attention until he’s finished.

Then comes the day Jean can tell something is really bothering Marco as he works. Marco’s doing the lip-puckering-thinking-face, mussing his hair—a pile of crumpled papers litters his work area as he viciously crosses out whatever he had been writing and adds to the mess. Jean decides to bring him a brew to help him relax and upon setting the cup and saucer down, lingers by the desk for a moment.

“…copper for your thoughts.”

“Hm?” Marco lifts his head. He’s dressed down, his jacket flung over his chair and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. There’s an ink stain on Marco’s hand and his hair has completely lost its style. Marco has to blink a few times just to make the words from his paper stop swimming in his eyes.

Oh yes, he needs a break.

“My mother always told me that venting helps. If you want to, that is.” Warmth spreads in Jean’s cheeks as he forces out the offer.

He doesn’t expect Marco to really take it. Marco’s a wonderful man, a patient and saintly prince, but he’s still horribly busy with work and Jean is someone who works _under_  him—he begins backing away when Marco finally answers.

“…no, no— It’s fine. It’s just—” The prince sighs and runs his stained hand through his hair. The strands stick up at odd angles afterward and Jean can’t help but find it adorable. “Have you ever started something, and your reasons for doing it change along the way? Or your feelings _about_  the something change?”

Jean thinks of many things. He’s a man who has grown and learned many life lessons. His feelings and motivations change with every new stage of life.

Eren flashes in Jean’s mind. His feelings about Eren have certainly changed. Eren and how gently he’s tended to Jean’s arms since the window broke. Eren and how the longer Jean serves under Marco, the more he sees what this man does for someone like Marco. Eren and how when the work becomes too much he gently pulls Marco away and leads him to bed.

But Jean pushes it away. This is not the time or place to ponder the fondness he’s developing for green eyes and a challenging smile.

“Yes, actually.” Jean vanishes all traces of Eren from his mind and focuses on the prince. The prince needs help. He has to offer more than silly crushes.

“Oh?” Marco tilts his head until it rests on his fist, watching Jean with interest.

“It’s a bit of a personal story, sir, I don’t know—”

“Please, go on. I would love to hear it.” Marco gives an airy little laugh before breaking into a yawn. Jean nudges his tea closer and Marco takes it with a small  _thanks_.

Marco looks so…normal. Dressed down. Tired. Drinking tea without gripping the cup properly. It’s so much easier to see him as a person rather than a title when the rest of the world is tucked away for the night.

“Okay then…” Jean leans back against one of the shelves in the study. He rolls his shoulder and settles to where no spines are digging into his back before meeting eyes with the expectant prince. Good lord, his eyes are distracting. Jean isn’t sure how he can begin the story with a face like that looking at him.

In the end he decides to do what Sasha has been nagging him to stop doing for years. He goes in the blunt direction.

 “I originally wanted to become a knight for the fame. I wanted money. I wanted attention. I was a cocky brat who aimed for the easy life.”

Marco blinks.

Then blinks again. And makes a small noise somewhere between disbelief and laughter.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I still am a bit of a brat, sir,” Jean admits. And it’s true. He’s dedicated to his work, yes, but he knows he isn’t the best of people. He’s a disaster socially. He starts fights without thinking. He finds petty reasons to hate people—Eren, for example—and drags his feet when it comes to making up for it. “I didn’t believe in the honor code at all and only wanted to become famous. And then my father died.”

Marco sits up suddenly. Jean raises a brow, confused at the level of surprise and sadness creeping into Marco’s expression. It wasn’t  _that_  horrible. Here Marco is looking like he just died last week and Jean missed the funeral.

“I’m so sorry.” Marco’s hand comes up to cover his heart, curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s all right. I was sixteen. I’ve had plenty of time since,” Jean assures. And he has. He was hurt at first, definitely, but he’s fine now. Time and a better understanding of grief have eased the emotions of it all.

“Still…” Marco presses on. Jean holds up a hand and Marco bites his lip to silence himself.

“I was sixteen, bratty, self-absorbed…” Jean begins listing off. His voice softens, slowing down as memories come back. Being a teenager who batted away his mother’s love having to go home and give her comfort. Having to hold her as she cried and remaining a pillar of strength despite wanting to sob himself. All of the sudden responsibilities and duties he had no idea his father shouldered.

But surely the prince doesn’t want to hear all of that. So he summarizes.

“And suddenly I was the man of the house. I had to go home and get the family affairs in order. I had to make sure my mother had enough money to live on. So, in a way I’m still in it all for the money, but I never save any for myself. I only take what I need and send the rest to her.”

“That’s…horribly noble of you,” Marco whispers. The sympathy and surprise in those beautiful brown eyes hurts. Jean looks away so he won’t blush.

“I started taking Sir Janarch’s lessons on the honor code seriously after that. I live by it now.”

“That’s obvious,” Marco says with nothing but fondness in his voice. The softness in his expression fades a bit, something a little sad taking its place as he continues looking at Jean’s form against the bookshelf. “You really do believe it, don’t you?”

Jean straightens up. What a stupid question for someone like Marco to ask. He’s worked for years to reach this point, and he never would have gotten this far if he disregarded the things being a knight was based on!

“Of course. Without our honor we’re no better than the conquerors of Sina who plow over everything in the name of greed.” It comes out much louder and stronger than intended, the pride of his place in the Guard showing through in a way that’s almost embarrassing.

“You know…” Marco starts, swirling the contents of his tea slowly. “I like this. When you open up a bit.”

It’s akin to being punched in the stomach. The bravado Jean’s built up withers and dies with a pathetic whimper.

Marco _likes_  this?

Marco  _likes_ talking to him?

“Sire?”

“Underneath all the armor you’re so much more than expected. You’re a fascinating person, Jean Kirschstein. Never change.” There’s a strange little wobble to Marco’s voice, one he seems to be aware of as he downs the rest of his drink and coughs a few times to cover it up.

Jean can only try to subtly hang on to the shelf for dear life. He’s aware his face must be as red as a tomato and nothing he does will make it fade.

“U-Um. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Marco gives him a little half smile.

“Please. Call me Marco.”

“I ca— I really can’t. Sir,” Jean stutters out. He’d like to— _oh_ ,he’d like to—but he can’t.

“Fine. I’ll wear you down one day, I swear.” Marco picks up his pen again, settling down to finish the work Jean has been distracting him from this whole time. “Go to bed, Jean. I think I have the answer I need. You deserve a good night’s rest.”

“…thank you, sir.” Jean separates from the shelf and makes his way to the door, turning to give another glance to the tired form under the gas lamp before slipping out.

He doesn’t see Marco’s expression change the second the door is closed, the smile and softness melting from his features only to be replaced by something cold.

“You damn fool. You really have no idea.”

 

* * *

 

Ian’s visits to Marco are infrequent and unpredictable. Sometimes he’s around for morning tea. Sometimes he’s around for dinner. Sometimes he comes in and takes up an entire afternoon. But without fail, every time he’s around Marco devotes his full attention to him. A meeting that is only supposed to last half an hour can last all day if Ian so wills it, and Marco  _lets_  it.

It gets on Jean’s last nerve. He’s missed plenty of lunch breaks because Ian sticks around through the designated time he’s supposed to eat. He’s gotten sunburned thanks to Ian’s last minute venue changes (“Lunch inside? No, Marco, let’s go  _out_.”), and during last week’s batch of lawn games, the damn idiot accidentally threw his croquet mallet and nearly took Eren’s head off.

So, the visit that turned out to be evening drinking did nothing to ease Jean’s annoyance toward Ian’s very existence.

This visit means Jean may very well be up all night watching drunks.

Which is what he expects when Ian arrives and Marco pulls out wine bottles with labels crafted in foreign script. He hands one off to Ian, who gushes about the maker and the practices they do for a solid five minutes, and the other goes to Eren who pops the top and pours himself and Marco a glass as quickly as possible. Which, really, is the appropriate response to spending an evening with someone who has to tell you all the reasons everything they own is costly.

Marco gives Jean a signal to lock the door, which he does before settling down into a chair by one of the windows, and the night begins.

The conversation shifts easily with wine fueling the speakers. At first it’s mindless gossip about who did what in what part of the court. A lady from the south made a statement that put ill will on her husband. A duke from the north caught his son fooling with a maid. Someone from somewhere or other was caught doing unmentionable things to barn animals. That sort of drivel. Then the topic shifts to the locomotive tests. The machines are progressing faster than expected, even though they can only tote so many people at the moment and are being used to run supplies. Then to other inventions that are beginning to trickle into the market.

It goes from there. The advancement of science turns into the market in general, which turns to trade, which turns to travel, which turns to strange things seen while traveling, which turns to fun places to take a vacation. Ian, of course, brags about Sina. Marco goes on about the islands out in the ocean and how the native inhabitants make beautiful jewelry.

By that point, everyone has had a glass or two, and Ian’s face is flushed. Marco blinks slowly every few seconds, a content look on his face. Eren has reached a point where he’s leaning on Marco’s shoulder to stay upright. From his chair Jean hopes this means the night will draw to a close soon but Ian pours himself another tall glass and takes a deep swill of it.

When he pulls away, he makes an exaggerated gasp of refreshment, leaning back into the cushions with a soft _fwump_.

“We should really have more evenings like this. Games are fun and all, but nothing beats a good drink.”

“You’re preaching to the choir. I’ll have someone mark it down as a monthly tradition.” Marco lifts his glass lazily in agreement.

“You’re a good man, Marco,” Ian slurs back. He takes another deep gulp of his wine before smiling to himself. “So, have you heard the news from the borders?”

“No, what?” Marco tilts his head a bit so his cheek rests on top of Eren’s head. Eren makes a soft little snort and throws his free arm around Marco’s neck in return.

“Rumor has it the Marians are planning to take Jinae’s northern territory past the mountains.”

Jean blinks from his seat. That’s absurd. Maria is a mess of a country with its military; ever since they overthrew their monarchy, they haven’t been able to keep peace at all. Plus, there would be no  _reason_  to take Jinae’s northern territory. Jinae and Maria share the least amount of space when it comes to borders.

Jean doesn’t have to voice this, though. Marco makes a face and replies with exactly what he’s thinking.

“That’s absurd. Maria’s military has been a disaster since the civil war. They can barely mobilize a local police force.”

Ian shrugs and takes another drink, pausing to lick a drop that escapes and runs down the side of his glass. “I’m only passing along what I heard. Sina’s been pressing into them so Jinae would be an obstacle if they planned to fight back.”

“Psh. In their southern territory only. If Maria and Sina go to war again, they have plenty of territory to fight.” Marco tightens his grip on his glass, Eren patting at his neck in an attempt to calm him down.

“So you aren’t worried for Jinae?” Ian replies absentmindedly.

“We have expert knights ready to defend us. Of course I’m not worried.”

“Marco…” Ian takes another swill, one even deeper than the rest, before swinging his arm to point in the prince’s general direction.  “Don’t you see? The age of knights is dragging itself on a bit.”

Jean blinks.

Eren blinks.

Marco blinks.

“ _Excuse_  you?” Marco asks, in a scandalized tone.

Given how the knights of Jinae have served as a crucial part of the country’s history and military force, no one has ever questioned their continued existence. They are a given. They are eternal. The royal family promised them a long running legacy in exchange for their service. They even have a  _holiday_  based on their sacrifices.

Ian is either a daring man, or the wine has turned him into the kind of idiot that burns all his bridges when drunk.

“I mean no offense, but really— We have guns now. We have the first railway system and its expanding tracks. This isn’t the age of old where our castles were packed with mud. What use is swords and armor when we’re moving on to a new era?” Ian’s voice slurs a bit during his argument, hand twirling the remnants of his wine around in his glass.

Marco sits up a bit straighter and Eren’s head falls from his shoulder, nestling back against the sofa cushions. “The knights are an established military force. Jinae has kept peace and prosperity for five hundred years thanks to their efforts.”

“Yes, but the world is changing. Perhaps it’s time to begin abandoning some of the older ways.” Ian shrugs.

“We can’t just abandon the knights, Ian. You know as well as I do how important they are.” Marco’s voice becomes a bit more agitated. The drunken edges fade from his tone and his words become sharper. More focused.

Ian only shrugs again and drinks the last bit of his wine.

“I’m just thinking that maybe it’s time to introduce some new things to the system.”

Marco becomes very still. Jean can’t see his face from where he sits, but he can tell there is no trace of wine left at his next words, which are delivered effectively enough to make Ian drop his glass.

“You mean your plans for anarchy, Ian?”

Everything goes silent.

Not even the wind outside makes a noise.

“…what?” Ian asks, wide eyed.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Marco’s voice is cold. It’s as cold as ice, lacking any of the warmth he’s known for. “The Disaster Theory was a rather obvious clue, so thank you for that. If I were trying to be subtle, I wouldn’t advertise I read the book all anarchists treat as a holy text.”

There’s no slur. No lilt. No lisp. Jean blinks and tries to figure out why, and on the sofa Eren turns his head enough to meet Jean’s eyes and hold a finger to his lips.  _Keep quiet_ , he means.

Eren’s eyes are unclouded. He and Marco aren’t drunk.

“I don’t know what you mean, Sire.” Ian grips at the sofa cushions so hard his knuckles turn white. He swallows thickly and tries to avoid the accusing stare the prince is giving him.

“Oh, stop playing ignorant, you fucking idiot. I’ve known the entire time. I’ve known since last year when you started making frequent trips to Sina.”

Ian lets out an empty laugh. It’s devoid of humor. Of amusement. It’s the kind of desperate noise someone makes when they aren’t sure they’re in reality.

“I was on holiday, Marco.”

“You were visiting the home of an established anarchist supporter. One that was tried but released on insufficient evidence. You’ve been _back_  on an average of once every two months.” Marco crosses his legs and taps his fingers impatiently on the wooden back of the sofa. Eren reaches into the collar of his shirt and extracts papers folded into little squares, handing them off to Marco who holds them up as evidence.

“I—” Ian tries to interrupt, tries to clear himself, but Marco is too fast and Ian is still too drunk to think.

“Eren took correspondences from your pocket on my birthday, revealing notes on everything from the castle staff to the assignments of the Royal Guard. How long have you been spying, Ian? How much have you collected and who are you sending it to?”

Jean can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Ian is a spy. Ian’s been collecting information on the castle and everyone in it. Ian’s oddly timed inconvenient visits have all been a ruse. What has he written? What has he sold about the queen? The king? The prince and princess? How much information has he been able to get his hands on?

 “You don’t—” Ian tries to placate the prince, tries to get him to wind down, but it falls on deaf ears.

“I have more than enough to convict you, Ian. Money won’t bail you out like it has all the other times you’ve dived into something bigger than yourself. Now tell me who you’re collecting for.” Marco’s voice is final, a nail in the coffin of Ian’s reputation. The prince’s room is no longer a lavish resting area; it’s the final resting place of one Ian Dietrich’s freedom.

“I…” Ian licks his dry lips. His eyes waver on Marco, darting to Eren for some kind of support and only finding Eren staring back with the same accusation. “I just…”

Ian stands, knocking his wine bottle to the floor. Jean stands in response and reaches for his sword but Marco holds his hand up as a signal to halt.

_Don’t act,_  he says.  _Wait on standby_.

Ian trembles. His breath comes out in heavy pants. Beads of sweat begin dripping down his face and his hands spasm; his fists open and close, and open and close…

And he begins laughing. He laughs, long and hard, cackling like a hyena that’s gotten its hands on its next meal.

“You and your entire family need to be wiped out! Don’t you understand!? The days of kings are over! The monarchies need to fall so humanity can go back to the chaos it was born from!”

Ian waves his arms as he shrieks. Jean’s hand tightens on the handle of his sword but Marco keeps his hand up. He keeps Jean at bay while Ian reveals his own lies in one last fit of desperation. A madman admitting his sins in his final moments so he can leave some kind of mark.

“It’s only the natural order of things! Pretending otherwise is just a delusion! Nobles like you herd humans like sheep so we can act like we’re better than animals, but we’re  _not_!”

Jean itches to move. He needs to make sure Ian doesn’t do anything drastic. He needs to be arrested. He needs to stand trial for crimes against the crown. But Marco doesn’t give him the signal to move. Is he waiting for a full confession? Surely this is good enough.

Spittle flies from Ian’s lips as he laughs out his lines, head tilting up to stare at the paintings of goddesses on the ceiling. “Chaos and disorder is the state that we were born into, and it… It…”

Ian’s body spasms. His face tilts back down.

There’s white foam gurgling from his mouth as he drops to the floor.

“Sire—” Jean steps forward but Marco signals him again, this time adding a verbal order.

“Jean, if you have a weak constitution, I give you permission to leave.”

“I… What…?” Jean stutters out.

Jean doesn’t understand this. Is Ian okay? Did his own breakdown cause something?

Jean couldn’t move from his position if he tried. None of this makes sense.

Marco stands, finally. He walks over to Ian’s twitching form on the carpet, crawling forward to try to grip at the table, and brings his boot down _hard_  on Ian’s hand. The wail of pain is mixed with disgusting throaty noises.

“I’ve been waiting weeks for this. It was impossible to pretend to like you, but I did it just to get to this point.” Marco bends down so he can look Ian in the eye, digging his heel into the bones of his hand.  “Your first mistake was thinking I wouldn’t notice a spy in my own court.”

“Hn…hrgh…” Ian tries to speak. Tries to make noise. More foam drips down his chin as rivulets begin pouring from his nose.

“Your second was treating Eren poorly. I simply cannot have that,” Marco continues on casually. “Your third… You injured my guard. I am not happy, Ian. I am not happy at all. Your little stunt with the window was so childish.”

Ian trembles. In fear, in pain, or in response to his body simply shutting down. Either one or all three or more.

He clears enough of his throat to utter one final word.

“I…”

And he drops. His eyes stare into nothing, wide as dinner plates with the last remnants of his fear etched into his features. Marco smiles and leans down to whisper in his ear as a parting gift.

“Oh, and by the way: you’ve been drinking backwater wine laced with lethal poison. I bought that bottle for six coppers.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENTS make for an extremely happy-if-exhausted author, as do visits to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth of the matter is that people are playthings that can be led any direction with pretty words and lavish promises. The other truth of the matter is that sometimes playthings tire of being playthings. Sometimes playthings realize that the strings they're being tugged by are being tugged by weak wrists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally spent all summer with this stuck on certain scenes then kicked my ass into gear and suddenly it went from a 12k projected chapter to over 18k words. I don't know what happened. It just kept getting bigger. Please enjoy the fruits of my labor. 
> 
> The reactions I've been getting to Marco in this story are great though. The whole point of Praetorian is to show characters with gray morality and leave the readers grasping at what to make of it all. Despite this being a Marco centric chapter I can't help but feel that we're still left on the outside of how he really thinks and feels, like even his narration covers things up.

 

 

 

 

As long as governments have existed, so has corruption.

As long as monarchies and their courts have existed, so has the art of the game.

The game, which will not be given the privilege of being capitalized or acknowledged as important enough to deserve it, is a deadly practice that leaders must familiarize themselves with if they wish to get anything done. It is a complicated dance of being friends with everyone while trusting no one. It is a display where you smile for appearances sake while despising everyone in the room. It is a concept based on deceit either you accept and use to live or you refuse and die from because your rivals ripped your weaknesses from your chest to display for all to see.

The larger your court, the more the game is played. Jinae may be a modest country with a smaller court than Sina or Maria, but it has just enough to warrant the game be required. If you’re born into the monarchy, then you have no choice in playing. It’s just a matter of when you sacrifice your trust to begin.

Marco sacrificed his the first day he began looking into Carla Jaeger’s murder.

 

**Praetorian**

**Chapter 3**

Marco and Eren’s first kill was at age fourteen.

It was messy. It was messy, poorly planned, and their alibi was rockier than the shores of Sina’s northern coast. They were too nervous. Too young. Too ill-prepared for their own vengeance that had been years in the making. Too weak to make their initial cuts deep enough, instead having to hack again and again and  _again_  until the man they held down stopped moving. The man they left lying in a pool of his own blood had deserved everything they had given him. The man they slaughtered in vengeance had killed eight innocent people in a botched attempt to reach the nobility, ruined a family, and ended their childhoods all in one fell swoop.

If one were to turn back the pages of the story, to look before the current narrative, they would see it all began with the fact children of castle servants have free reign to most of the grounds as long as they stay out of the adult’s way. Eren’s father, a doctor famous for his improvements to public health, had fled Maria in the chaos of its civil war and gained favor with the royal family through treating the queen for a persistent illness. He and his family came to live in the castle so Grisha could be the royal physician as his reward.

And so, Eren had the same privileges as all the other children. He was allowed to be free as long as he didn’t cause trouble. He made friends. It was rare, given Eren’s temper burned more bridges than he could build, but he managed. He became close with the gardener’s grandson Armin. He became friendly with the Ackerman heiress Mikasa when she was nearby due to her page work.

He became friends with the prince, because the prince was overjoyed at the fact there were other children in his own home and didn’t seem to notice or care they weren’t nobility.

Now, he and Marco weren’t the closest of friends. They didn’t play together all the time. Marco still had princely duties and lessons to attend to. But when Armin began studying under a mapmaker and Mikasa’s page duties kept her too busy, Marco was there. He was always there with a smile and an eagerness to play whatever it was his companion desired. Though the prince was growing older and soon he would be expected to leave friends like Eren behind, he continued to come and continued to offer his carefree childhood enthusiasm.

Until the day their story changed.

Until the day, whilst playing tag, Eren suddenly stopped at the door that led to the staff living quarters.

Until the day the castle guards were summoned by the prince’s call and found him staring down at the body of Carla Jaeger while her son screamed bloody murder.

They were only ten, and that incident marked the end of the happy days of childhood.

Fast forward four years. Fast forward past the birth of the princess, past Eren’s father beginning his son’s training as a doctor, past Marco looking deeper and deeper into the mysterious murder of Carla Jaeger and several other unlucky servants, past two boys who were once friends of convenience sharing a bed because the world outside was  _too much_. Fast forward past all of it and back to the scene of bloody revenge, with two boys who had to grow up too fast clutching their weapons in shaky fingers.

Back to the scene where even though justice had been served, Eren’s heart still hurt enough to send him to tears over his lost family.

Back to the scene where a little prince, ridden with guilt that his friend had to suffer because someone wanted to hurt  _his_  family, took on the heaviest responsibility of his life. That night Marco made a promise as he held Eren’s bloody hand. One that he would continue to uphold as long as he possibly could.

Pressing a kiss to his head, Marco whispered a promise of  _never again_. There would be no more Carlas. No more meaningless death. No one would ever hurt them like this again.

He would kill them all before they ever got the chance.

 

* * *

 

“You’re distracted.”

Eren’s voice is sultry against his ear. Years of closeness, of sharing everything from beds to first times to the darkest of desires, has yet to wear down the effect it has on Marco. A shiver ripples down his spine into the steaming water of the bath and he snaps out of his daydreams to the feeling of Eren’s lips trailing down his neck.

“Hm?” Marco lifts his head up from the terrycloth bath pillow propped up on the edge of the tub, droplets from his hair falling onto his face from the sudden movement. Eren pulls back from sucking a mark onto his collarbone to give him a disappointed stare. “Sorry.”

Eren huffs, leaning back onto Marco’s thighs and trailing wet hands across his chest.

At times like this, Marco can’t believe at one point he and Eren weren’t close. This gorgeous, disheveled man has been the center of his universe for far too long.

“I’m naked and in your lap. You’re not even hard. I’m hurt, Marco.” Eren grinds his hips just a fraction, enough for Marco to feel the weight pressing into his hip under the water. Marco bites his lip and begins feeling up Eren’s thigh in appreciation.

“Your poor ego.”

“My poor dick. It’s gonna shrivel up and die if you don’t pay attention to it.” Eren wiggles his hips impatiently. It’s a routine they do often, testing Marco’s resolve with drawing things out versus Eren’s need to get himself off. Either Marco wins and he slowly ravishes Eren’s body surrounded by rose petals in the water or Eren wins and he gets bent over the counter by the sink and fucked mercilessly.

It’s a win-win, so of course it’s one of their favorite pastimes.

“Wasn’t it you who gave me a lecture once on why bathing in water filled with cum was a bad idea?” Marco’s hand slides further back to grip at Eren’s ass, earning a pleased groan and another deep grind. His free hand sneaks up while Eren is distracted and delivers a few quick pumps to his cock, causing the smaller man to gasp loudly before Marco grins to himself and takes his hand away. Eren pants with his fingers digging into Marco’s shoulders and gives him a dirty look.

He knows better than to think Marco will play fair. It’s what makes this little routine so interesting. 

“We’ve already cleaned ourselves. Now we can just  _happen_  to get cum in some dirty water. That’s a lot different.” Eren’s nails drag against Marco’s skin as he finally dislodges them from the prince’s shoulders. The goose bumps that erupt in their wake let him know it’s appreciated.

Marco’s breathless laugh is paired with a minute jerk of the hips, a small arch of his back that leaves Eren licking his lips in anticipation.

But the prince isn’t going to be defeated yet. Both of his hands splay across Eren’s thighs under the water and grip with that bruising strength Eren always  _begs_  for.

With the feeling of Eren’s hips attempting to jerk into his touch Marco playfully replies, “Or: you’re just horny and desperate.”

“That, too. I’m not going to be ashamed about it.” Eren  _melts_  under the attention. His hands run down Marco’s chest and back up, slowly rising until he can bury his fingers in wet hair and pull Marco forward for a bruising kiss. Marco moans softly at the contact but Eren pulls away before he can respond in full.  “Really, what’s wrong? You know I don’t like seeing your pretty face all sad.”

Marco always has been weak to Eren’s eyes. Their emerald color is lethal when he looks so concerned. And concerned he is, pressing his forehead to Marco’s with his hands gently pushing Marco’s hair away from his face. He’s always been able to tell things like this. When Marco is worried but keeping it inside. Eren isn’t the greatest at reading or understanding people, but Marco?

He knows Marco better than he knows himself.

Marco’s hand comes out of the water to softly caress Eren’s cheek with his thumb. He doesn’t deserve this boy or his heart.

“It’s about Jean.”

Eren nods. As if he’s expected this answer. As if he understands, as if he feels the same odd sort of softness toward the new pawn in Marco’s hand.

“You know he isn’t going to say anything. It’s why you picked him.” Eren’s answer is, of course, blunt.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Marco picked Jean because it was obvious the man was infatuated with him. The last guard couldn’t be trusted. The last one was tempted too much by what he could have if he played the game like everyone else. Getting rid of him was a chore that took Marco’s time away from more important things, like tracking Ian or feeding that Lady from the south enough narcotics to loosen her lips about what her husband was planning behind the court’s back.

So, someone who worshiped the ground he walked on was a better choice. Someone who was so blinded by their own affection that Marco could order them to do  _anything_ and they would do it. Jean looks at Marco as if Marco is a god himself and it guarantees his loyalty and compliance for whatever Marco may have in store.

That was the plan, anyway.

But instead of the mindless fool he expected, he found something quite different. Something he never thought he would see. He isn’t sure how to feel about it.

He almost feels _guilty_  over exposing him to the horrors of the game.

But…that was the _plan_.

His life for the past fourteen years has been ruled by plans. Why is _this_  the one he doubts?

“I know.” Marco’s eyes slip closed and his head drops back to the soft pillow. This is too much for him so early in the morning. All of this was supposed to be an easy play in the game. He was supposed to entertain his guard’s crush to ensure loyalty, continue his plans to weed out Ian’s spies, and move on with his life.

“So it’s something else?” Eren shifts his hips a bit to readjust himself. His thumb wipes away a droplet of water from Marco’s lips and he’s rewarded with a soft kiss pressed to the pad of his finger.

“I just…” Marco’s eyes slowly open again and he stares past Eren at the roses on the ceiling. “He’s different. Than I imagined someone like him to be.”

The thing that  _ruins_  him about Jean is the fact Marco genuinely _likes_  the guy.

He brought in a man he expected to be a blushing fool. And while Jean blushes and  _is_  a bit of a fool, it isn’t in the way they think.

Jean is frustratingly honest. He’s actually dedicated to his job. He hasn’t gotten tired with the boring routine of the nobility and still invests all his energy in his littlest tasks. He makes it clear what he feels about things. If not with his words, then with his expressions. When he speaks, he’s as blunt as Eren and he  _knows_  it.

Worst of all, he genuinely believes in the code of honor. Most soldiers his age treat it as something useless to be memorized. Marco isn’t sure when the last time was he met a knight Jean’s age who took it seriously.

Judging from the softness in Eren’s eyes, the feeling is mutual.

“…I think I know where you’re getting at.” Eren leans down to splay himself over Marco’s chest, resting his head in the crook of his neck. Marco hums and strokes his spine to earn a little shiver that breaks into a gasp in his ear.

“It’s infuriating how genuine he is,” Marco mumbles. “How does someone who worked their way into the Royal Guard  _not_  have a vice?”

“I’m sure he has something. Maybe it’s his delicious ass.” Eren wiggles his own to illustrate his point, his half hard cock rubbing against Marco’s leg at the movement.

Marco laughs and gives Eren’s nape a pinch. “It  _does_  look good in that uniform.”

That was another reason he picked Jean as his guard.

He and Eren both find him incredibly attractive. They have since they spotted him among the wide eyed recruits, antsy as ever to prove himself to the crowds. If having a lovesick personal guard is a good thing, then having one to stare at is but a beautiful, beautiful bonus.

“I’m so thankful toward whoever designed that. You should give them a raise,” Eren purrs.

“I should,” Marco feels his cock twitch under the water but ignores it for now. He and Eren have plenty of time to get themselves off. No need to rush. “Do you think he’ll last? Being here?”

Eren taps his finger lightly against Marco’s skin as he thinks.

The last guard started off decently, as much as one could when the bastard hadn’t had a job in a while. He had taken off from the front lines to tend to his homestead before he received the news of his promotion. He was an okay man. Not the best, certainly not the worst, but…average. Like Ian had been before he was swept up in the fantasy of changing the world.

But then the fool had discovered what he could gain if he lent his loyalties out, and sealed his own fate.

 “I think he has a ways to go before the court ruins him like the last one,” Eren answers quietly.

“He told me that when he was young, he was as greedy as the rest of them. But he has different priorities now.” Marco tilts his head up to stare at the ceiling. His bathroom has a rather nice star map painted in detail and looking into the constellations is rather soothing.

“They all say that,” Eren replies sarcastically.

Marco grunts. They  _do_  all say that. It’s an upsetting factor in trying to select a guard when they all swear they’re better people than they used to be.

But once again, Jean proves to be different.

“Yes, but he didn’t lie. We checked his background before I ever went to pretend I was considering anyone else. He really does have no personal savings and seems to send most of his pay away. If we checked with the postmaster, I’m sure we would find all of his mail goes directly to his mother.”

Marco can feel Eren’s lips twist. He knows exactly what screwed expression his lover is making and he knows it’s equal parts adorable as it is confused.

“…it disgusts me how sweet that is.”

Marco can’t help but laugh. Eren sounds so put out.

“It really has been too long since we’ve seen anything other than the  _shit_ the court forces us to look at.”

Eren offers a halfhearted laugh in return. “Did you give him the day off?”

“Of course. Hopefully he’s sleeping off what he saw.”

Eren freezes. Slowly he leans back, leaving Marco’s chest cold to the exposed air as he thins out his lips and keeps his eyes trained to the corner of the room.

Marco closes his eyes. He knows what’s coming next. That anxious little noise Eren always makes when he knows something Marco doesn’t.

“ _Mmmm_ …”

That’s the one. It increases in pitch as Eren bites his lip and valiantly focuses on everything  _but_ Marco as the prince opens his eyes and fixes his attention on his squirming lover.

“Eren,” Marco demands sternly.

Eren continues to look away. “Yes?”

Marco frowns a bit harder and his tone becomes scornful. “What do you know?”

Eren wiggles in Marco’s lap a little, their groins pressing together in a way that’s entirely too pleasurable for the conversation they’re having, and slowly brings his eyes back to meet Marco’s “He took his horse and left this morning. He didn’t take his things, he’s just…gone out.” Eren winces as it all slips out and he prepares for Marco’s reaction.

Marco is entirely unimpressed. That isn’t nearly as bad as what Eren is making it out to be.

“That’s unexpected,” he deadpans. 

“But you still don’t think he’ll tell.” Eren remains leaning a bit away from him, testing to see if Marco is only buying time before reacting. But no rage comes. No surprise. Marco only shrugs in nonchalance.

“No….no.” Marco shakes his head and allows his arms to wrap around Eren’s waist, bringing him close again. His brain is half focused on Eren’s cock pressing against him and half focused on the situation at hand.

He’s still so very sure on his assumption Jean would never turn against him.

But he still can’t wrap his mind around everything that makes up this odd little knight.

In the end, Marco pulls the plug in the tub and admits he truly doesn’t have enough information to tackle such a topic. “Jean Kirschstein, you are a confusing man.”

Eren grabs a plush towel from the nearest basket and makes quick work of drying them off as they stand, taking a moment to drag his hand along Marco’s thighs and reignite the mood they’d all but forgotten about. Marco grips at his hard-on in return and begins leading him toward the bed. For all the time they spent talking in the tub he wants to spend twice as long making Eren bite the sheets. It’s only fair.

He’s pressing Eren into soft cotton and licking a drop of pre from his cock when a final detail manages to worm itself out of him. He stops to nose at Eren’s shaft and his question is half muffled against soft brown skin.

“By the way, Eren…has Ian been taken care of?”

Eren laughs and spreads his legs ever wider.

“Of course. Doctors always clean up their messes. It’s just good practice.”

 

* * *

 

Jean’s return goes differently than Marco expects.

But then again, he doesn’t know what he really expected in the first place.

Fire? Vulnerability? Groveling? None of them seem to fit this man Marco has had the pleasure of observing. But despite having no earthly clue as to what to expect, what actually happens still throws him off. Jean returns to work just as normally as any man would after free time. He arrives bright and early with breakfast. He sets the table.

He doesn’t look at Marco once, despite Marco sitting  _at_ the table staring at him.

“Did you enjoy your time off?” Marco picks up a muffin and inspects it. Blueberry. His favorite. Jean betrays nothing about the inquiry and sets the tray aside once he’s finished.

“Yes.”

Marco narrows his eyes. Jean always replies rather flatly but there is absolutely  _no_ enthusiasm hidden under his voice today.

“Do anything interesting?” Marco turns the muffin around in his hands before taking a bite. Eren, still in bed and aching from being twisted into shapes the previous day, lifts himself up from the blankets to watch them speak. Jean doesn’t pay him any attention, either.

In fact, Jean’s nose twitches in that same little way it did when Ian would say something pigheaded.

“No. I went home to visit my mother.”

Oh, he’s definitely angry. Marco sets the muffin down and attempts to counter with something lighthearted. Jean does love his mother. Maybe keeping a pleasant conversation about her would ease his mood. “Oh, and how was sh—?”

Jean’s lip curls and he cuts Marco off. “Stop that.”

Eren sits up straighter.

Marco blinks and crosses his leg, feigning innocence. This is new. Jean being angry in general is nothing new, of course, but having that anger directed toward  _him_ …that is definitely a new development.

“…stop what?”

“This.” Jean gestures at him, eye twitching as the sparks of his temper begin going off with only a small little switch keeping it contained. “This little… _thing_. Where you pick people apart. I didn’t tell anyone what I saw so you can go ahead and  _stop_.”

He sounds utterly disgusted. Reviled at the very thought of Marco observing him.

For some reason, that hurts.

Marco knows what he does isn’t noble by any means. He’s known it from the day he and Eren stripped and bathed in a forest creek to wash away the evidence of their first crime. What he does is horribly immoral and he has no doubt carved himself a legacy that matches the worst monsters humanity has to offer.

But seeing Jean look at him with a face like that just rubs him the wrong way, and he wonders if all the minor shame he’s felt until this point was just preparation for the brick dropping into his stomach.

Jean doesn’t add on. He doesn’t give himself a final line to tack on for the sake of really drilling in what he thinks. He reigns in his fury, breathing calmly, and bows before starting for the door. “If you need anything, I’ll be outside.”

Marco finds his voice amid the confusion, amid the internal questioning of  _why now_  towards this guilt forming inside him, and he stops Jean before his fingers can wrap around the door handle.

“Are you mad?”

Jean doesn’t leave.

He turns and Marco honestly can’t fathom what the look on his face means.

It’s horribly cold.

“…frankly, sir, I don’t see how what I think is any of your business.”

Jean doesn’t slam the door on his way out. But from the way Marco grips at the table, he may as well have.

 

* * *

 

The image the public has of Princess Mabel is that of a pretty young lady who represents everything a young lady _should_  be. Graceful. Polite. Poised. Princess Mabel is the standard women set upon their daughters. If wives wish to be the queen, then young girls all strive to be the princess. Rumors of her exploits, reminiscent of watered down fairy tales in their exaggerations, spread to every corner of Jinae until they become mingled with fact. Marco has met numerous young girls who claim the innocent niceness inherent in such an image is a pure thing to strive for.

Honestly, it’s all shit.

Princess Mabel is an abrasive, bossy tyrant of a girl who thinks of all people as dirt on her shoe.

 Mabel grew up in the formative years of Marco and Eren’s early murder plans. The essence of those years is seeped into her very being and she radiates that sly cunning that took the young prince years to learn. To be fair, Marco  _did_  try to keep her as far away from it as possible. She deserved the chance to be a child and to not get tangled up in the web of lies that would inevitably choke them all. But Mabel seemed to see straight through him. Even as a little girl, she somehow knew the happy visage of their home was a lie. She just didn’t see a point in doing anything when she had no power.

It’s how she operates. She knows everything that’s going on, regardless of if she’s going to act. Which she usually doesn’t. Her job as a princess is to sit around and look pretty until she’s married, to start some charities, and to set a good example to fuel those rumors she can tame woodland creatures. Mabel stays on top of the game entirely through the power of gossip and frankly, Marco is relieved she sees no need to dispose of him. The few occasions where Mabel  _does_  get involved in the game never end well.

Honestly, he loves her all the more for it.

He has absolutely no plans to actually sit on the throne as king. If he does so, then he surrenders any freedom over his own fate and the stakes of the game become higher. His little sister, a smart girl blooming into an intelligent woman, will fill his shoes nicely. Especially with him preparing her for it every step of the way. He only needs to keep up the act of being an heir until the time comes for the crown to actually be passed on.

Marco may be a cold blooded killer who disposes of his enemies, but let it be said he strives to be a good brother who spends quality time with his baby sister. Even if it means spending the afternoon getting his ass handed to him in fencing.

“You’re off today.”

Mabel keeps the tip of her foil pressed to Marco’s chest, prodding at his muscles playfully before stepping back and removing her mask. Marco sighs and does the same after picking himself up off the floor. Both of them are sweating from their game but neither mind. Marco runs a gloved hand through his hair and eyes the neat braid Mabel has with envy. She was smart enough to think ahead and prevent sticky bangs from clinging to her forehead.

Mabel’s most personal servant, a pretty youth named Nina, comes forward from the sidelines to offer a glass of water. Mabel takes it wordlessly and allows herself to stroke Nina’s cheek softly before taking a sip.

Marco shakes his head, rolling his eyes at his sister’s blatant affection. “One day you’re going to realize doing that openly is a bad idea.”

“Whoever has a problem with my Nina can fight me.” Mabel hands her glass back to Nina and watches with only the utmost fondness as it is put away on a table a decent distance away from their fencing space. “If they fight like you, then I can do it with one hand behind my back.”

“Of course,” Marco replies playfully.

Mabel half turns and narrows her eyes at him, tapping her sword against the floor impatiently.

“Seriously. You’re off today. Normally I have to entertain you for another few minutes before you hit the floor.”

“It’s nothing.” Marco avoids her gaze and begins stripping off the protective gloves of his fencing uniform. His fingers appreciate the fresh air and flex accordingly.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” Mabel turns more fully, disbelief evident in her brow. “Did you fight with Jaeger?”

Marco wants to sigh. Every time he has a problem, it’s assumed Eren is a part of it. He wonders if Mabel even remembers the days when her toddler mind believed Eren was just another brother who never sat in on family portraits.

Even if she did, she would most likely deny it.

“No. Eren and I are perfectly fine. It’s nothing you should concern yourself with.” Marco knows his deflections are useless, as they always are, as his sister imitates their mother’s stern expression and demands the truth. As if he’s a child lying about spoiling his dinner.

“Like hell. You still owe me from when I helped you with your guard.”

“I don’t owe you that much. All you had to do was stand there and look surprised,” Marco points out.

And really, it’s the truth. Mabel had the easiest job of the entire plan. She simply had to stand there and act as if her “sudden assailant” was a threat. If anyone had a hard time, it was Eren. The poor man had to shoot Marco’s guard from a tree, run from the castle guards at the scene, and destroy the evidence all before running back a few minutes later to play the part of shocked bystander.

But Mabel disregards that, huffing in exaggeration. “It was very taxing to feign emotion. Right, Nina?”

Nina, ever loyal to her lady, nods in agreement with a small smile. “You could have pulled a face muscle. It would have been a tragedy for the ages.”

“Exactly.” Mabel gestures at her love as proof her argument is sound. Marco knows better than to argue against such logic. Nina’s word is final. “The problem isn’t going to go away by ignoring it.”

Marco concedes. As playful as they get, there is a shred of truth to what she’s saying. “I know, Mabel.”

She doesn’t stop her observation of her brother, studying the slope of his shoulders before pulling herself together as realization dawns upon her.

“Oh, I see. You smothered it, didn’t you?”

“What?” Marco recoils.

“You saw the problem and tried to be extra nice to it to avoid an argument.” Mabel points at him accusingly, coming close enough to poke him in the chest and to study his reaction to such an accusation. Marco purses his lips in indignation and Mabel groans. “Oh, gods above. You really  _are_  an idiot.”

“What would  _you_ suggest then, oh mighty princess?” Marco pushes away her finger and levels his hands to his hips, using his height advantage to tower over the smaller girl. She pushes him back and rolls her eyes before retreating back to Nina’s side and taking her drink back to her hand.

“Do nothing. Give them space. Trying to explain or justify yourself will just seem like you’re making excuses.”

That’s…actually very sound advice. Marco deflates at the realization a fourteen-year-old is giving him good advice. He was supposed to be the elder sibling here. Either that old saying girls mature faster is true or he isn’t nearly as emotionally competent as he thought.

“…you’re oddly knowledgeable about this sort of thing,” Marco mutters.

“Apparently women are expected to be emotional buffers. I don’t understand any of it. I just told you what Nina tells me.” Mabel shrugs.

“You’re getting better at faking it.” Nina pats her lady on the shoulder, coming forward to nuzzle their cheeks together and to peck Mabel’s temple sweetly.

The princess is chuffed at the attention and gives Marco a rather smug smile, if it can be called a smile, over her glass. “Thank you, Nina.”

Marco resists the urge to roll his eyes so far into his skull he can see his brain. Instead he gives an exasperated breath and collects his things, waving goodbye as he starts for the door. “Well, as much fun as it’s been receiving life advice from you, I have a schedule to keep. We’ll do this again soon.”

“Marco.”

He doesn’t heed his sister’s voice, keeping his strong stride until his hand touches the door and a loud THUNK sounds in his ears.

He doesn’t need to turn to see the vibrating handle of a throwing knife next to his head.

The room is quiet. He doesn’t move to pull the knife out; he knows his sister will retrieve it herself. She treasures her little weapons. Her next words are softer, but just as stern as Marco grips the handle of the door.

“Take my advice.”

Marco can’t help but crack a broken smile. Why is it he and his sister get along best when it comes to the parts of their lives that need to stay hidden?

“…I’ll think about it. Maybe when your aim is better.”

Mabel doesn’t laugh but Marco can feel his own expression mirrored on her face, staring a hole into the back of his head.

“If I was trying to hit you, you would have been hit years ago.”

 

* * *

 

Sina, as a country, is a fuckpit of misery. At least, that’s how Eren describes it. Marco is inclined to agree. It is a country that is drenched in riches. For hundreds of years, they were the ultimate leaders in everything from fashion, to business, to innovation, and to military power. Its nobility is infamous for being wasteful with their money and taxing the poorer classes whenever they hit a financial rough spot, as they are wont to do after spending it on frivolities only the richest of people would find amusing.

Unsurprisingly, Jinae began when a group of slaves that served corrupt landowners in Sina revolted against their masters and led a campaign for freedom. The war ended in their favor, obviously, and since then, Jinae’s view of its sister country has been a forced coexistence with faked friendliness. They do business together and mutually agree to leave the other alone. With Jinae quickly taking Sina’s place as the innovative powerhouse, the other country has been dialing back their own hostility so they can reap the rewards of trade.

Marco has been to Sina multiple times, and each time he grows more disgusted with it. Of all the lands, Sina is the oldest functioning monarchy and as such, their own corrupt system is set in stronger stone. The ways of its court are unbreakable without a full scale revolution, and such a thing is impossible with the lengths its king goes to in order to smother his dissenters. He can do nothing but watch as its court runs itself into the ground while spilling expensive drinks.

But, on the bright side, Sina has also delivered him one of the greatest blessings of his life.

“A Lady Historia is asking for you, sir.”

Marco pauses, blinking a few times as he processes what Jean has just told him. The papers in his hand are suddenly much less important than they were when he came to this study.

“Historia?” Marco questions. Jean stoically nods. “I wasn’t told she would be here.”

“She’s being rather insistent. Shall I send her away?” Jean still lacks that warmth from before, staring ahead with cold eyes that make Marco want to scream. But he refrains. He sets his work down and prepares himself for whatever news he’s about to receive.

“No. No, heavens no.” Marco pinches his brow as he gets out of his seat and starts for the door. Jean follows silently. “Tell me where she’s waiting.”

“Private tea room. The green one.”

“All right. Eren, come on.” Eren, who was dozing on a window cushion, suddenly stands at attention and scrambles after them. “Jean, keep watch for unwanted company. Lock the door while you’re at it.”

The green tea room is the most secure one. Marco knows this because he’s personally examined all of the tea rooms for all their weak points. The green room is the most soundproof, has the smallest window, and is the most secluded of the five tea rooms the palace hosts. Historia only ever meets there when they have to discuss something  _private_. Eren doesn’t voice his concerns as they rush to their meeting place. Jean doesn’t give any inclination he cares.

When Marco opens the door, Historia is already seated with a cup in her hand and a deathly serious gaze that could melt steel. Behind her, her faithful guard stands at attention.

The door is locked and Jean assumes his position outside. The smothering cloud of foreboding news chokes the room in its entirety, painting Marco’s form with anticipatory exhaustion as he sits down. Despite the obvious intent of delivering bad news, Historia remains upright and dainty in the finest Sina silks draped over her small body. Her princess-like stature betrays the coldness in her eyes as she sets her teacup down and cuts directly to the chase.

“Mother wants an engagement party.”

The statement is so unexpected all Marco can do is dumbly blink.

“…what?”

“Mother wants an engagement party. Here. Soon,” Historia sighs, exhausted and angry, tapping one filed fingernail against the fine wood of the table as her tensing shoulders reveal how she feels about the news herself. “Don’t criticize me about it. I only found out an hour ago.”

As if Marco was ever going to criticize her at all.

The reason Historia Reiss is among the greatest blessings in his life is because she is the perfect ruse. She is a trapped lady born to a system that wishes to use her. And Marco, being a prince, needs to use a lady to fulfill obligations to the crown. She is a woman bound to her bodyguard with her heart and he is a man who is too far gone into his companion to ever consider leaving. They are kindred spirits who need a mask in order to continue having some form of peace.

Taking Historia as a wife is truly the greatest plan Marco has ever had. He gains a spouse who is aware he doesn’t love her and doesn’t attempt to love him in return. Historia gains a safety net to live out her days with her lover away from her family. Everyone wins.

The only true downfall is their status as nobility means they cannot maintain control on the details of their own fake love. Marco always assumed if their betrothal was rushed for any reason, it would be because  _his_ mother became overzealous. But, then again, Historia’s mother is a bit infamous on the gossip vine for desperately attempting to stay within the court to continue canoodling with the king. With the constant drama in the Sina court, it seems obvious that title-grabbing would be at fault for this change of plans.

Marco rubs at his temple and curses Sina politics, mourning how many hours he’s going to lose attempting to sort this out.

“Is she  _here_?”

“Talking to your mother, yes. She’s impatient. Instead of coming forward after my studies are completed  she wants me to finish everything after our honeymoon.” Historia’s voice is tight with anger, dainty hands clenching into fists. Behind her Ymir, ever attuned to her lady, places a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

“That would ruin everything we arranged,” Marco tiredly points out. The original plan was something he cooked up several  _years_  ago and was banking on to make the most use out of his marriage. Historia was there to help him plan it. It was the cornerstone of their relationship.

“I  _know_ , Marco. I’m not happy about this, either,” Historia bites back. “But this is the hand we’re dealing with, so we need to figure out how to work with it.”

“Fuck…” Marco’s eyes slide closed as he breathes out slowly, accepting the abyss and the ruination of all his carefully laid planning. Eren pats his arm gently and brings him back to the present. As much as Marco hates it, he knows his fiancée is right.  “Fine. Okay. How soon does she want the party?”

“Extremely soon. She already has invitations designed.”

“ _Fuck_. She really is a shrew…” Marco doesn’t care for offense, as Historia merely nods in agreement. By now she is more than aware her mother is dirt beneath her shoe. It’s frankly leaps and bounds ahead of who she was when they first met, clamoring for just a few seconds of Lady Alma’s attention. “Has your mother told you anything about her expectations for this party? Or what comes after?”

“She wants a parade to honor our engagement.” Historia rolls her eyes so far Marco can feel his own ache in their sockets. Eren lets out a groan that matches Ymir’s curled lips. Historia pours herself another cup of tea and proceeds to drink half of it in one go. Marco suddenly suspects she may have added something to it before he arrived. “Like the greedy woman she is, she wants to make it abundantly clear she now belongs to the house of Bodt as an in-law.”

Marco shakes his head wearily. Lord, he hates Lady Alma and her need for attention.

Eren cuts in, in Marco’s place, fingers folded under his chin. “And how is your father taking that?”

“On the surface, he isn’t concerned. But truthfully, he’s glad he will finally be rid of me.” Historia leans back in her seat, tapping her fingernails once again on the table. Marco knows much more about her relationship with Alma, but it is no secret her relationship with King Rod has always been a friction filled affair. “There are whispers in the halls I could be a revolutionary symbol. Either I leave the country or I wake up to a gun in my face for supposed treason against the king.”

“How pleasant,” Marco deadpans.

“Truly,” his fiancée mirrors. “Since our engagement announcement has been moved, this means that wedding preparations have already been set into motion. I assume we still have control over those?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Historia nods. “On your end, I want this party on your watch. Try not to let Mother have her way too much.”

“As if I would ever let her garish visions become our nuptial reality,” Marco replies playfully. “Anything else,  _darling_?”

Historia’s smile plays along, but quickly drops as she inclines her head toward the door. “What of your new guard?”

Marco’s mood immediately takes a downward turn. “What of him?”

“Does he  _know_?”

Marco’s lips thin out. Eren looks at him from the corner of his eye and Marco can feel the questioning concern smother him.

In the end he smiles, forced and painful.

“Don’t concern yourself with him. I have everything perfectly under control.”

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t have everything perfectly under control.

But, at least, he still has his other plans. His marital affairs may be under his mother’s control but his hobbies are purely his. If he can call them hobbies, anyway. He supposes the ritual elimination of pests could technically be a hobby since it makes up so much of his spare time.

The target that night is a judge. A judge from the south who came to the capital and proceeded to use every type of corruption at his disposal to gain status and power. Innocent people have gone to jail and had their assets taken. Guilty people have been awarded money and allowed to walk free. His newfound wealth has put him among the high class, which means he rubs elbows with the nobility. Rubbing elbows with the nobility has put him in good favor to eventually join the higher courts.

Marco had intended to ruin his career with a quiet pedophilia scandal, as the man wasn’t terribly important, but the discovery this judge was planning on using royal secrets as blackmail once he entered the higher courts elevated his threat level. Marco needed to make sure the man never showed his face again. As it happens, he also felt the need to vent building frustration.

With the half-moon high in the sky, Marco waits for the judge to wander into view in the trees surrounding his property. To his side, Eren stands quietly, deathly still, holding the leashes of the royal hounds. In preparation for this event, Marco has had them deprived of food for three days. They’re absolutely ravenous, tugging at their leathers awaiting the order to strike.

Marco readies his crossbow, checks for any detail that may cause him to miss, then blows on an odd little noisemaker he acquired specifically for the job.

The judge, as it happens, is an avid birdwatcher. The call Marco is using belongs to a rare breed that has been known to occasionally pass over Jinae’s capital on its journeys to and from the mountains. He blows it once, twice, three times—then pauses for a moment before doing it again.

It takes minutes with intervals of blowing before the judge clambers out of his house, a robe hanging off his shoulders and binoculars in his hands as he looks up to the sky. Marco blows the call again and with a manic grin the judge stomps toward the trees that make his property line.

Marco drops the call and aims. He counts down slowly, carefully, taking aim at the man’s beer swollen gut…

The arrow hits him in the chest and he only makes it a few more steps before falling over. Eren drops the leashes, giving a sharp whistle urging the dogs to sprint forward at top speed.

The judge’s screams echo into the clear nighttime sky, and yet Marco only feels slightly better at his job well done.

“Wolf hunting will receive a spike in popularity after this. You should draft a decree when we get home so the people don’t get carried away.” Eren stretches his arms above his head, groaning as his back pops. “I’m sure the autopsy on this will be very open and shut.”

“Take out the arrow before we leave. Hopefully the entry wound won’t be noticeable with the mutilation,” Marco mutters softly. Some distance away, the judge finally stills as his screams die in his garbled throat, which one of the dogs is ripping open and devouring with gusto.

“I can disguise it if it is. The dog’s claws are strong enough to rip it open.” Eren shrugs. “Is there risk of servants coming out to see what the noise was?”

“No. I checked.”

“Good.” Eren allows himself a small look of satisfaction before focusing on the tense muscles in Marco’s jaw. Even in the dark, he can tell Marco is worrying his tongue between his teeth as he thinks. “Still grumpy, I see.”

Marco’s mood is still sour but a sliver of amusement breaks free from his lover’s banter. “Smartass.”

“I poke at you out of love, you know that.” Eren’s hand comes up to lovingly pat Marco’s arm before his fingers softly skim the material of his shirt. “So what’s the plan?”

“You say that as if I already have one,” Marco replies, leaning into the touch. He’s always been greedy for Eren’s hands and the shorter man knows to abuse this weakness whenever possible.

“You match Armin in chess. You have at least three already with a fourth in its early stages.”

“Well, you aren’t  _wrong_.” Marco’s lips quirk up in a small smile, humming as Eren’s hand skims from his arm to his back and up to the shorter hairs of his head. Dirty as they are, his hands feel  _magical_. “This entire thing is a publicity stunt catered to the whims of a shrew who can’t keep her hands out of a king’s trousers. We’re going to have to play this as a show.”

Eren hums, smoothing out the sweat soaked strands sticking to Marco’s neck. “The event is going to draw the entire court’s attention. We don’t need this on top of digging into what Ian was doing.”

“We can still take advantage of it. Historia is despised entirely by the court of Sina, no doubt those who attend her engagement party will be full of information,” Marco mutters, turning his head to press a kiss to the palm of Eren’s hand. He tastes sweat and leather from the dog’s tethers.

“You want me to charm my way into their ranks?” Eren suggests playfully.

“Your charm has no effect on Sina born nobles. They think you’re an idiot,” Marco replies flatly. He nuzzles Eren’s palm before it returns to smoothing out his hair, scratching a spot Eren  _knows_  makes Marco shiver.

Little shit.

“That’s fair.”

Marco resists the urge to hit Eren in the shoulder and continues. “No, the key to this would be Armin. He’s intelligent. Young. Political but uninvolved. What Ian was before the anarchists got hold of him.”

Eren’s hand stops its ministrations, thoughtful. “You think the anarchists will be there?”

“Of  _course_  the anarchists will be there. Historia said it herself—she’s a kink in the chain. She could cause untold chaos if used correctly. The anarchists would be stupid if they didn’t keep their eyes on her.” Marco shrugs Eren’s hand off and rolls his neck, savoring the small pop that results, and whistles for the dogs.

“They  _are_  stupid,” Eren protests. The dogs swarm them, happily wagging their tails in a behavior completely inappropriate considering the blood staining their fur, and Eren makes quick work of gathering their tethers and delivering whispers of praise. All of them are going to get treats for this.

Marco pets one, scratching behind the ear as they all turn to leave through the trees. “Their  _beliefs_ are stupid. But as people, they have a nasty habit of collecting educated individuals to lead their dimmer foot soldiers.”

“So we have intelligent people standing for a stupid cause, and they exist in multiple levels of the higher class,” Eren summarizes. “Lovely. Just peachy. I can’t wait to see how this will all play out.”

Marco can’t help but laugh at that.

It takes a bit of the edge off. By the time they arrive home and destroy the evidence, he thinks he’ll be plenty relaxed to think about things with a clear head.

 

* * *

 

The Jean problem doesn’t seem to be resolving itself. No matter how much head clearing and plan touch-ups Marco does, that specific problem doesn’t seem to be budging.  The fact Jean isn’t easily manipulated is fresh and nice, he admits, but it’s rather inconvenient on top of everything else at the moment. Marco needs him to be nice and complacent so he doesn’t need to worry about mixed loyalties while handling the stress of feigning being in love in front of his country.

Allowing Jean his space doesn’t seem to make things better. Jean hovers on the outskirts of Marco’s space and ignores him expertly. He still does his job; fetching Marco’s breakfast every morning, reading off his schedule, and overseeing his tasks; but he does it with the iciest shoulder Marco has ever seen. The clipped way Jean speaks to him has finally managed to surpass the levels of passive aggression Mabel shows to those who have earned her definite hatred. Marco is becoming genuinely impressed with how catty Jean can be while saying nearly nothing.

But, again: he needs a complacent and obedient guard at the moment.

There has to be some way to reel the man back in. If  _Levi_  of all people can be whipped into acting as a model soldier, Marco can whip Jean back into the love struck simpleton he was when he started the job. Or at least get him to fake it. Marco fakes being the epitome of kindness on a daily basis so Jean can find  _some_  way to feign affection.

Preparations for his engagement announcement means the two of them share close space more often than usual. Marco has Eren running errands—he needs to find out when Armin’s next boat comes in, the notable members of the guest list, arrange the next shipment of deadly poisons—so his company is rather… _lacking_ , should he say, with only Jean present.

The worst is probably his suit fittings. He doesn’t mind the actual process, it’s probably the calmest of all the preparations so far, but the only other person present is the seamstress and aside from orders to turn so she can pin down fabric, the silence is suffocating.

Marco attempts to break the silence, wiggling his fingers as the seamstress adjusts his cuff length. “Jean.”

“Yes, sir?” Jean doesn’t even look at him. He stands as he always does, in the corner, leaning against a pillar with a small book. Marco is sure it’s poetry of some sort.

“What do you think? Too flashy?” Marco feels the tiniest bit smug when Jean’s eyes leave his book, scanning his white and gold form for only a few seconds. He returns to his pages uninterested.

“I am not a fashion consultant. I wouldn’t know tailored pants from scrap rags.”

Marco resists the urge to deflate. The seamstress would strike him upside the head if he moved now. “Honestly. You’re no fun.”

“I would hope not. I’m supposed to be working,” Jean replies, completely flat.

Marco hates dealing with men like this. The stubborn ones are usually the ones he kills in their beds because they couldn’t be bought or bribed. Although, he notes, normally these stubborn men are political and pushing some kind of agenda. Jean is just being petty.

His musing is cut short when heavy knocks come from the door, a combed blond head peeking in and bowing in respect. Jean snaps to attention in a salute. It’s the liveliest thing Marco has seen him do in weeks.

Erwin Smith, still in his traveling coat and slightly damp from the late summer showers, dismisses him, staying out of the way of the swaths of fabric and papers the seamstress has managed to accumulate. “I hope I’m not intruding on anything…”

“Commander Erwin!” Marco greets him with the utmost enthusiasm. Erwin Smith is a dangerous man. A good man for his armies, an excellent strategist, but a dangerous man. He would rather deal with him without any company present. “Not at all, not at all.” But, as things are, you have to keep men like him within good graces. Marco turns lightly to the seamstress, working on the hem of his pants, and gives her his kindest smile. “You’ve worked so hard today, why don’t you take a break?”

“Oh—thank you, sir. I am grateful.” As expected, she melts. Everyone melts when Marco smiles at them. She removes needles from her mouth and sticks them in a cushion, bowing as she rises. “If you neatly fold the suit, sir, I can begin the final touches today.”

“Not a problem. Enjoy a moment to rest your hands.” Marco waves her off and is glad when she immediately vacates the room. “Erwin, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Playing the game with Erwin Smith is something Marco has a bit of a love/hate relationship with. He loves it because Erwin is one of those men who is always aware the game is in action. He knows his status as a piece on a chessboard. He knows the odds are always changing. He is a rare example of a man who genuinely understands the sword of Damocles that dangles above his head. Playing the game with Erwin allows Marco to finally engage another player who he can call an equal in intellect. It’s an exercise of the brain.

He hates it because Erwin Smith, in his understanding, could easily turn the entire game on its head. He’s a smart man. A genius. He has years on Marco, years that give him more experience and more wisdom. Erwin Smith is a man Marco can only  _guess_  for. He hates he can’t predict Erwin’s movements on the board.

He especially hates Erwin is such a valuable part of his army, so getting rid of him is out of the question until he has definitive proof Erwin has some sort of treachery planned. Which he doesn’t. Marco would know because Erwin always makes it very clear when he has a plan; the problem always comes with figuring out what it is.

“It appears I’m ahead of schedule.” Erwin bows again in apology, producing a box he gingerly sets down on a clean table. “Levi was insistent I acquire your request from his personal manufacturer.”

Marco feels a small trill of happiness shoot up his spine. He had assumed this request would take another week at the most.

Erwin removes the lid and sitting inside, packaged neatly, is a gun and a holster for the waist.

“Ah. A man of fine tastes, indeed.” Marco, mindful of the needles in his suit, makes his way over to take the gun out. He runs his fingers over the cool metal and engraved hilt, aiming it at a window to see how it feels in his hands. “How many bullets?”

“Six. Reload time takes seconds once practiced,” Erwin answers automatically.

Marco follows the path of a bird flying outside, pleased at how comfortable the gun seems to handle. “Accuracy?”

Something twinkles in Erwin’s eye. “Well, that depends on the shooter, doesn’t it?”

Oh, how he loves and hates that. If it were any other time, he would give in and play along, seeing how many false niceties he and Erwin could throw at each other before they tire out. But Marco’s on a schedule. He and Historia have a fitting for engagement rings today.

Marco lowers the gun and puts it back in its holster, nodding at the commander in satisfaction. “Your service is much appreciated. Tell the captain I give him my endless thanks for pointing us toward such a fine maker.”

“It was his pleasure,” Erwin assures. He turns to leave, that utterly fake smile still plastered on his face as if his company isn’t also a liar. “Enjoy the rest of your preparations, and congratulations on your engagement.”

The door shuts softly behind him, and Marco immediately holds the gun out toward Jean.

“Here.”

Jean blinks. He doesn’t move, eyes flickering between Marco’s face and the gun in his outstretched hand. “…what?”

“The gun. I ordered it for you,” Marco states plainly.

Jean blinks at him again. He gets this look on his face, when he thinks. Marco can see the gears turning inside his skull trying to sort out what’s going on.

Jean slowly comes forward, close enough to take the gun but making no move to remove it from Marco’s person. The gun is unimportant as Jean focuses solely on Marco’s face, fixed into stony silence. Marco knows better than to flash a smile. The last time he did, Jean stormed out and left the room. If Jean doesn’t want niceties, then fine.

A muscle in Jean’s jaw twitches, his voice hard as his eyes glance back down to the holster in Marco’s hand.

“…this is because of Ian. Isn’t it?” Jean asks lowly.

“Ian was a dog that needed to be put down before he spread his rabies,” Marco replies. He shakes the gun a bit, his arm getting tired and his patience wearing thin. “But that doesn’t mean he was completely wrong. You need a gun.”

Jean takes a step back. “I don’t, really.”

Marco’s patience snaps, his temper flaring as he holds the gun out more insistently. He doesn’t have time for this. “What use is a sword against bullets, Jean? I assume you have firearm training?”

“Yes, but—” Jean begins.

“Then refresh your memory. You have endless bullets to practice with and space to safely shoot.” Marco cuts him off by throwing the gun to Jean’s chest, forcing him to cradle it as Marco turns to begin stripping his suit. The needles left in by the seamstress are beginning to make themselves known and he’d rather not bleed over such delicate fabric.

Jean’s voice speaks up, quiet, barely heard over the rustling as Marco undresses. “…sir.”

“Yes?”

“What happened to the guard before me?”

Marco doesn’t bother to turn back. The lie falls from his tongue as easy as ever. “He was shot by an assailant after my sister.”

“No.” Jean’s voice loses its softness, a clenching noise telling Marco he’s still holding the gun holster in his hands. “ _You_  shot him, didn’t you?”

Marco pauses, head rising to peer at Jean through the mirror.

“…well, well, someone fancies himself clever.” Marco can see the gears turning again. Emotions flicker through Jean too rapidly to count, to sporadic to pin down. All Marco cares about is making sure he doesn’t become so disgusted he loses Jean’s loyalty as a guard.  “For the record, I didn’t. Eren did.”

Those were apparently the wrong words. Jean’s grip on the holster tightens and his brow furrows in anger. “What’s the point of giving me this if you’re going to off me anyway?”

The sincerity in that question is sickening. Where is Jean getting the idea Marco is going to kill him? If he wanted Jean dead, he would have put poison in his tea weeks ago during idle chit-chat. If Marco honestly wanted Jean dead, Jean’s remains would already be severed and dumped into three different rivers, far away where no one would ever find him.

“I have no intention of offing you unless you attempt something that warrants it. I’m not a complete monster.”

There’s a twitch in Jean’s face, a glimmer of disgust as he focuses on the skin of Marco’s back. “And the last guard warranted it?”

Marco still refuses to turn, fixing stern eyes on Jean through the mirror as he slips his own shirt back on and begins to button it.

“He was selling my schedule to the highest bidder. He was an experienced man who knew he could get ahead by leaving me out to dry. Yes, I think that warrants getting rid of him.” The last bit comes out meaner than intended, a bite that only spurs Jean forward instead of placating him.

He makes an offended noise and his hands move to his hips in a pose Marco has only ever seen mothers and nannies use against rotten children. “How can you be so heartless toward another human being’s _life_?”

Marco laughs. It’s short, a bark, really, but it’s a laugh. His head lolls back as he finally turns around, shrugging his jacket on and fixing his buttons into place.

“Oh, are you going to stay mad forever?”

“I’m not mad,” Jean clarifies. His voice evens out flatly, stern and sure. “I’m just disappointed.”

_Disappointed_ , he says.

Jean has no right to be disappointed. Jean is a peasant who has only ever known the image Marco projects. Jean only knows the false smiles, the false sentiments, the lies Marco spreads every day so Jinae will only ever regard him as some kind of angel.

Jean doesn’t know what it’s like.

He doesn’t know how suffocating the court is. Being trapped every day in a pit of vipers constantly planning against you while claiming their loyalty. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be groomed by adults to be a political puppet. He doesn’t know what it’s like to discover companions conspiring against you.

Jean grew up with freedom, with the choice to do what he wanted with his future. Marco grew up to discover one of his father’s cabinet members paid the assassin that killed his friend’s mother. Marco grew up to discover adults gambling the lives of his people so they could add more gold to their personal vaults.

Marco grew up to bury a knife in the neck of a grown man to avenge the death of an innocent woman. Only months later he would kill again, this time a maid that was slowly poisoning his sickly grandfather. He held her down while Eren choked the last bit of life from her with piano wire. Weeks after that, it was a hopeful assassin attempting to sneak his way in, only to have his skull caved in with a silver candle holder.

Marco grew up to fall into an endless cycle, doomed to the words  _never again_  that etched themselves into his very being when he and Eren stood over their first corpse.

Jean has no right to be disappointed. He doesn’t know how much Marco has had to do just to keep his head held high. He doesn’t know how much he’s forced himself to keep moving forward, even with the weight of the world dragging him down, trying to smother him.

As much as Marco’s anger curls in his gut, as much as he wants to scream, he remains stone faced and meeting Jean dead on.

Marco can’t remember the last time someone actually faced him like this with no fear.

“Are you going to take the gun or do I need to offend Captain Levi and the commander by sending it back?” Marco holds out his hand, palm up. Jean considers it for a moment before holstering the gun to his side in the most passive aggressive motion possible.

“It’s fine,” he answers, clipped. “Do you need me for anything else,  _sir_?”

What he needs is for Jean to move a few inches to the right so Marco can shove him through the window for being an insolent twat.

“No. This will be all.”

 

* * *

 

Jean stops talking to him altogether for a while.

Eren reports he goes into the field quite often to practice shooting at bottles.

 

* * *

 

There is an art to the practice of the parade.

This isn’t pretentious drivel—this is actual fact that Marco, Mabel, and every member of their family has been taught from the time they were young. They have all been instructed how to sit, how to wave, how to smile, and how to radiate the exact attitude to gain the most positive reaction from the people. Marco has become quite adept at playing the role through years of public appearances.

It’s where he shines his brightest, actually. Unlike parties and social events, in parades he doesn’t have to consistently fake conversation. He only needs to smile and wave.

Look out into the crowd, glaze over their faces.

Smile and wave.

Smile and wave.

Repeat.

Marco does it all without thinking anymore. The parade for his engagement blends in with all of the others he’s been forced to partake in. Only this time, instead of being there to celebrate something abstract or some hero being awarded for valor, the focus will be on him and his “love.”

The day begins with hectic activity, everyone running around the castle grounds putting last minute touches on everything from the flowers to the horses to Marco himself. Eren disappears into the chaos (but not before kissing Marco with a bite promising something  _more_ , later) and Marco is left to his own devices. Mabel’s guard shows up an hour late for his shift, Historia’s jewelry goes missing before it’s found wedged behind her dresser, one of the horses injures a stable hand, the pages run rampant and confused due to conflicting orders from multiple adults—

But, really, all of that is completely normal.

In the end, everything goes off without a hitch. As always.

He smiles. He waves. He looks at Historia with fake affection, which she returns in kind. When they can, they whisper to each other, arms linked together, always complaining about the heat or the noise or the pretentiousness inherent in the entire display. Historia has choice words about her mother that make Marco bite his cheek to prevent himself from laughing.

Both of them are drenched in sweat from the sun, so their little quips are the only highlight in an otherwise miserable experience.

Yellow flowers rain from the heavens and petals swirl with the wind as the crowd cheers them on. For all the animosity toward Historia’s homeland, it seems their love for their prince outweighs their suspicions of his future bride. From their seat in the back of the royal carriage, Marco has the perfect view of Jinae’s people lining the cobblestones to get a glimpse. He skims over them all and focuses on Jean.

Jean, who pointedly ignores him and rides alongside the carriage as if Marco isn’t staring holes into his skull.

Bastard.

Smile and wave.

Smile and wave.

Repeat.

They circle the city, more flowers come down, and more children run alongside the display so they can stare at the royalty in front of them. Ymir waves to people from her horse, blowing kisses and shouting with the people. Historia’s focus drifts to her more and more, and her fake affection turns very real.

Marco only vaguely spots Eren a few times. He’s melded into the scene so well all he gets are glimpses of hair or a boot disappearing into the shadows.

Smile and wave.

Smile and wave.

Repeat.

Jean looks back at him exactly once. A delicate crown of flowers sits on his head that doesn’t match his surly expression. Marco beams at him. Jean’s lips curl and he rolls his eyes as he goes back to surveying the crowd.

Smile and wave.

Smile and wave.

Repeat.

 

* * *

 

The celebratory ball begins with the arrival of Armin Arlert.

Like Erwin, Armin is an intellectual equal. Armin is a man Marco respects as a mental adversary, finding joy within their interactions from the feeling of being on an equal playing field. Unlike Erwin, Armin is not someone Marco watches for in case of treachery. Armin is not a master of the board. Armin is not an enigma that excites and frightens him.

Armin is someone who has never played the game at all out of choice.

For that, Armin is perhaps the smartest of them all.

Marco doesn’t know exactly when, or exactly how, but Armin saw the situation as it was before he or Eren ever had to face the cruel reality of the game. He saw that life within the confines of the castle was one filled with dishonesty, treachery, and politics where lives where always at stake. So Armin did the logical thing and picked a career that never had him in one place for too long. He chose to explore the world.

And Eren would have followed him, if it hadn’t been for the incident that brought their innocence to an end.

Despite the distance that perpetually comes between them, Armin remains one of Eren’s closest friends. And for that, Marco has no plans to ever bring harm to him. A happy Eren means a happy Armin. A happy Armin means a happy Eren. As long as Eren stays safe and happy, Marco retains Armin’s good graces.

Which is helpful, considering Armin’s talent for being friends with just about everyone.

Armin may not be a player, but he’s so useful as a tool Marco would be a fool not to use him. Armin is one of those people who is so unassuming and generally friendly he can lure secrets out of any conversation. People tell Armin their thoughts because they trust him implicitly. He’s empathic. He’s comforting. He’s absolutely perfect for scouring an entire ballroom of guests for information.

Armin’s arrival begins with his lithe body worming itself through the crowds, a smile plastered on his suntanned face, and sea-air caused waves still dominate his hair. He’s thinner than the majority of the crowd but Marco can pick his blond head out of the throng of people all too easily.

“Marco!” Armin grips his hand in a firm shake and slaps the other on Marco’s shoulder in the brazen greeting he’s picked up from the coastal sailors. “It’s been too long. Congratulations on your engagement!”

Marco puts on his best smile. Showtime. The glimmer in Armin’s eye is the signal to begin the routine as always. “Thank you. How was the southern continents?”

“Unbelievable,” Armin breathes, placing a hand over his heart dreamily. “I’ll never understand why Sina wanted to force them to put their ways aside. Their culture is beautiful. The port I stopped in was next to this village where the people have figured out how to use mud to protect themselves from the sun and to clean their skin. It was amazing to learn about!”

The genuine passion Armin holds for his mapmaking travels never fails to be impressive. Marco can’t remember the last time he’s felt passion for anything outside of Eren’s skin. Armin glows as he continues talking about the things he’s seen, the things he’s learned while charting the coastline of Jinae’s southern neighbors.

Marco pats him on the shoulder to cut him off, a friendly laugh bubbling up from his throat. He knows Armin and he knows if given the chance, Armin will ignore the rest of the party to babble. “You’ll have to tell me all about it over tea.”

“Of course.” Armin nods. “I would have been back earlier but a storm rolled in and kept us at sea a bit longer than intended. The poor witch on board ran out of seasickness tonic.”

“Understandable. This time of year leaves the weather unpredictable.” Marco keeps his tone light, humorous, even with the slight twitches of his body that shift the conversation to the real reason Armin is even here. “Have you had a chance to talk to Eren?”

Translation:  _Has Eren brought you up to speed yet?_

Armin makes a show of stealing a drink from a passing tray and downing it quickly. For his petite stature and delicate constitution, his time with sailors has truly left a mark.

“During the parade. So much has happened since I left,” Armin beams after emptying his glass.

Translation:  _Yes, I know everything._

Marco’s smile curls a little more at the edges.

The game in action with someone on his level, on his side, is always enthralling. Armin feigns his role perfectly and Marco makes a point of casually comforting him with a tap to the arm.

“I’m sure you’ll catch up quickly. You always have.”

Armin nods, winking as he steps into the throng of partygoers. Marco hears a faint, “I’m sure I will,” as his best spy is absorbed by dresses and suits into the crowd of faceless masses. The knowledge he has Armin and Eren working the room makes him feel better about being surrounded.

Gods know how painful it is to smile and act like he’s having the time of his life when most of the people present make him sick.

His mother and father are engaging Historia’s mother in conversation. The woman still hasn’t taken the hint she isn’t the center of attention and a wrap made of some kind of endangered species is splayed across her shoulders. Marco doesn’t care to keep track of her. Lady Alma is only after one thing and once Historia is inducted into the house of Bodt, she’ll have it.

Somewhere to his left, a lord from the west laughs and bites into a pastry. Marco recognizes him as one of the opponents to a recent medical reform who didn’t want an increase in his taxes to pay for clinics in small villages. He claimed the poor can’t afford a proper doctor anyway.

To his right, an heiress lets out a breathy laugh and fans herself, showing off the many jeweled rings on her fingers and the gold threads sewn into the sleeves of her dress. Marco knows her from her vibrant speech in last year’s political meetings on how migrant workers don’t deserve full pay. She certainly never paid her own workers full wages. Her selfishness caused families to starve before his mother ordered a payout. Marco withholds the grimace attempting to break free; the woman is only here to catch up on gossip and to search for a husband. It’s obvious in the way she hangs off the shoulder of a bachelor Marco recognizes as one of the sons of a merchant stationed in the city.

And so it goes. Everywhere Marco looks is another snake in a pit of vipers.

A Sina born tradesman who wants to colonize the islands and ruin the carefully crafted peace by forcing the natives to adapt to mainland culture.

A distant relative who never fails to comment on how his mother was never royalty and how it makes her an inferior queen.

A hopeful lord, too old and too sleazy, who has made it no secret he would take the fourteen-year-old princess as a wife if the king would give his blessing.

A Marian noble who fled the civil war and is trying to rebuild his empire, demanding he be allowed to use child workers in his company like he was in his old home.

Marco wanders through the crowd, past every person that makes his skin crawl with their mere existence, giving smiles and thanks for all the congratulations on his engagement. One lord Marco knows forces his maids into bed stops him and tells him how lucky he is to have hooked “such a pretty little thing.” Marco smiles and laughs along with him while mentally recounting how many bastard children the man has running around at this point.

He’s asked a few times by a few curious faces where his precious fiancée is. Marco tells them she’s probably showing the ring off to some of the other women.

His eye twitches minutely as he says so because he knows for sure she’s hidden away in a corner canoodling with Ymir. He can’t complain, though. At least year’s solstice celebration, he snuck away to mouth at Eren’s cock in an empty room for half an hour. He cannot be angry when he knows how much stolen moments mean in places like this.

 For all the wandering he does, eventually his eyes catch on to a little corner near the back and one face stands out among the rest. Jean stands at attention, in full formal uniform, alert for danger, and…

Smiling.

Marco is taken back by the genuine look of contentment. Jean’s face for weeks has been nothing but a pinched angry mess; he’s made his displeasure for Marco’s entire being very much known. Marco’s almost forgotten what Jean looks like when he isn’t being pouty and unpleasant.

He’s almost forgotten Jean’s face is rather pretty when relaxed. Which is such a shame, because Jean’s pretty face was part of the reason he was hired at all.

“I’m going to steal your guard.”

Marco doesn’t jump. His sister’s sudden appearance from the faceless masses is surprising, but he does not jump. He cleanly waits a beat before inclining his head look down at her, waving a decorative fan as she gazes off somewhere behind him with apathy. Her silvery dress glitters in the light and seems to compliment his white and gold ensemble well.

“Marcel is late again, I presume?” Marco breaks from looking at her to back in Jean’s general direction. Jean’s speaking to someone now. The dark hair Marco can spot between moving heads leads him to believe it’s Mikasa.

A bitter corner of his mind whispers,  _Of course he’ll talk to Mikasa. Mikasa hates you, too_.

“He hasn’t been on time for anything today. Yours is at least punctual.” Mabel sneers behind her fan. She’s hated her guard for so long Marco wonders how Marcel ever got the job in the first place. “If it weren’t for my Nina, I would be left completely unprotected and susceptible to attack.”

Marco reluctantly rips his attention away from the soft look on Jean’s face to focus on his sibling again. The gentle tone of  _my Nina_  only serves to remind him he’s standing in the crowd virtually alone.

“Of course you would be,” he says. He pours as much sarcasm as possible into a charming smile, tilting his head toward his sister to make sure she doesn’t miss it. “As if you don’t have five knives on hand at all times.”

“Marco Bodt, I do not know where you get such brash accusations from. Ladies do not touch knives,” Mabel says with just as much wit in return.

Marco puts a hand over his heart, groveling in jest. “Forgive me for my insolence, Princess.”

“We’ll see if you’re forgiven.” Mabel folds her fan back up with a quick flick of her wrist and lightly hits him in the chest, quirking her lips in a signature almost-smile. “I’m feeling merciful, though.”

“Oh?” Marco’s brow rises as he gently bats away the fan.

“You have a spot of company awaiting you in the garden. You know where.” Mabel taps her fan against her shoulder, seemingly as an idle thing to do, but Marco follows where it points and the unsaid direction clicks inside his mind effortlessly.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says again, both eyebrows raising as he realizes why his sister is actually here. “I see, now.”

Mabel rolls her eyes and returns to her usual state of indifference. “Try not to vanish completely. Mother still wants you and your fiancée to coddle each other for a waltz.”

Marco is already walking away, mind far from the party and focused on his destination. “I make no promises.”

He doesn’t rush. He isn’t an idiot. He knows eyes are trained on him at all times, so he hurries without actually hurrying. He idly makes his way around the room, picking up a drink, handing it off to a pretty young thing excited to grab his attention. He slips out into the gardens and takes a moment to look at the stars. He allows a few partygoers outdoors to talk to him, small talk about his fiancée and the party decorations.

The gardens are blessedly thick with foliage and flowers. The season will end soon and everything will be devoured by snow but there is still more than enough to cover Marco’s tracks as he stealthily slips through the cracks in the bushes and makes his way to the hidden paths that delve into the private areas. Stepping stones lead the way as thicker leaves and lush petals give way to ornately trimmed hedges and the sound of trickling water.

Marco rounds a corner, dodging a pathway that leads to a dead end, and a genuine smile threatens to split him in two as he sees the visage awaiting him.

Under strong columns, marble white and supporting a canopy of draping foliage over a decorative fountain, Eren lies draped on a bench, twiddling a petal between his fingers. He hears Marco emerge from the path and angles his neck to look back, smiling. The petal falls to the grass below and Eren slowly rises with more grace than one man should have.

Marco bites his lip when Eren idly pats the empty space next to him. That coy little bastard.

“Have you tired of the party already?” Marco begins making his way toward the bench, tension slowly ebbing out of his shoulders as he unwinds. He needs this. He needs this so  _badly_. “Mother would be disappointed. She ordered that wine you like.”

“I’ve already stolen a bottle for later,” Eren assures. “And no, I haven’t. I just needed a…break.”

He trails off, leaving Marco to smirk at the implications. He reaches the canopy, dropping to the bench with more emphasis than intended that only serves to show him how tired his poor legs actually are.

He inclines his head toward his lover, weary and open. “A break.”

“A break,” Eren affirms. His hand trails from the stone to Marco’s thigh, slowly inching up with careful caresses. “We both need one, don’t you think?” Marco’s eyes slowly become half lidded as Eren cups his cock through his pants, lips pressing against his jaw line before ghosting over his own. “I can see how tired you are, love. Let me take care of you.”

_Let me take care of you._

How can Marco not?

Eren slides from his seat into Marco’s lap with practiced ease, hand rubbing him through fabric  _just right_  as their lips slot together. Marco’s strong hands lift up to caress, trailing up the muscles of Eren’s back before tangling in his hair to give more urgency to their kiss. Eren bites him softly and the moan that bubbles from Marco’s throat is on a hint to how much he  _wants_. How much he  _needs_.

How much he’ll  _always_  need.

The world only ever makes sense with Eren surrounding him, devouring him from the inside out.

Historia asked Marco once why he loves Eren.

It wasn’t in the way he’s been asked before, by nobles and knights and socialites. They all turn their noses at him and ask—

“Why would a prince like you be friends with  _him_?”

_Him_  being a man of normal blood and no wealth. A freeloader. A nobody. A servant of the family, dirt beneath him in every way. Every time they take that tone of superiority, it takes everything inside Marco not to choke them until they’re purple in the face. His loathing for those who would insult his loved ones so brazenly is absolute.

But the way Historia asked, it carried none of that negativity. It was simple curiosity. Why is the sky blue? Why do the trees lose their leaves? How could a man like Marco come to love someone like Eren?

The answer, he thinks, is quite simple.

The day he sacrificed all the pure parts of himself—his trust, his innocence, his faith in human kindness— it was for Eren’s sake. It was to ease Eren’s pain. It was for justice, to find the killer who struck down Carla Jaeger with no remorse. Every day after that he fell deeper into a hole that had consumed many before him. His quest for the truth only took him further into a legacy that was unspoken but so tied to the Bodt family it was inescapable.

The Bodts became Jinae’s royalty because they slaughtered their slave masters. They killed every member of the family, down to the children, stole their wealth, and launched a campaign against Sina so intense the country had no choice but to grant them the lands they conquered, and with it, their freedom. They’ve had blood on their hands from the very beginning. They killed more, stole more, and freed more slaves that they turned into their soldiers and their people.

Every generation since has just been putting on a face, pretending they aren’t still the cruel pragmatists that would gladly kill hundreds, if not thousands, to achieve their goals.

His journey to find Carla’s killer, and by proxy to alleviate his own guilt, led him into every dark corner imaginable for a family such as his. His world, which had been so bright, began to dull. He learned things most men do not learn until they are grown and hardened by the trials of life. He absorbed lessons that cut deeper and deeper into the optimism he had culled in his youth.

People lie. People work against you. Promises mean nothing in politics. Beliefs mean nothing. Kindness means nothing.  Human lives are worth coins in pockets, traded under tables. Alliances are farces made to keep the public blind.

There is only him, and what he is willing to stab others in the back for.

Through all those years of learning the darkest secrets of Jinae’s politics, at the end of the day he would return to his room to find Eren waiting. Some days nursing sore muscles from learning to fight. Some days writing furiously, copying notes from a thick medical text. But no matter what he was doing, he would lift his head to look at Marco, and with the same conviction as always, ask a simple question.

_“What do we do next?”_

So why does a man like Marco, who lies so easily it’s second nature, love Eren?

Because Eren is the center of his world.

Because Eren—wild, untamable Eren—is the shining beacon that reminds him why he became like this in the first place. Though they have the same amount of blood on their hands, the same secrets, the same sins they live and breathe and clutch each other whispering as they sweat into his sheets, Eren to him shines just as brightly as when they were children.

Eren is the only person he shows himself completely to. Eren is the only one he trusts fully with his plans. Eren is the only one he never doubts. Eren is who he permits to carry out his orders. Eren is the beacon that points him where to go. Eren is the person Marco would burn the world for. That was true when they were children, and it remains true now.

Without Eren, he is nothing. Because Eren is everything.

Marco moans as Eren grinds down, hardness pressing against his own urgently, and he’s overcome with the urge to escape the party entirely and lay Eren out on his bed. What he would give to slowly peel back every layer of clothes and taste his skin, to see Eren’s pretty lips wrapped around his cock…

Eren seems just as impatient as him, breathy moans escaping whenever their lips part before he dives in for more. He bites Marco’s lips, running his tongue over the indents of his teeth before trailing down the line of Marco’s jaw and moving his collar down to loudly suck a spot into his neck. Marco’s head tilts easily to give him better access and he shudders as another deep grind is punctuated with a roll of the hips and Eren’s teeth biting down.

They’re flying, high above their bodies, the castle, the responsibilities and facades awaiting them outside this little alcove.

They’re flying, and as myths foretold, they don’t see the sun approaching and melting their wings away.

The rustling of a new person emerging from the pathway startles them apart, Eren reaching for a knife as the intruder emerges from the hedges only to stop in surprise.

Jean gapes like a fish from the entrance, completely silent.

There is a beat of silence where even the distant sounds of the party are lost to the night. Eren’s fingers hover over one of his hidden throwing knives. Marco’s head remains tilted back baring Eren’s teeth marks on his neck. Jean’s stance remains firmly in mid-step.

Eren is the first to react. As he always has been. He melts away, regretful and mourning the mood, and his fingers graze over Marco with an unspoken promise they will continue later. He straightens his suit and fixes his hair with practiced ease. The softness in his gaze is apologetic as he backs away and vanishes into a hidden part between the hedges and a cascading display of roses.

Which leaves Marco and Jean.

Alone.

Jean blinks, jaw opening and closing as one hand gestures toward Eren’s exit, silent before he manages a garbled, “I don’t…”

Marco sighs and sits up. He begins setting himself right again. The mood is ruined anyway, no reason to hope for anything otherwise.

Jean continues to make sputtering noises as if his brain has ceased all function.

“I just…” He gestures toward the hidden exit Eren left through. “I…” He gestures back to Marco, desperate, confused.

In the end, his hands fall to his sides and his voice becomes so small, barely heard over the trickling of the fountain and the ruffling of Marco’s clothes as the prince sets everything back into place.

“…how could you?”

“Hm?” Marco looks up from straightening his collar, idly making sure Eren’s assault on his neck is properly covered. Jean’s hands curl into fists and his expression slowly turns from confusion to anger.

“How  _could_  you?”

Marco blinks. “I don’t follow.”

Jean laughs. Humorless. His shoulders hang low, all the energy inside him still deciding whether to build or to leave completely.

“You really are something,” he mutters, more to himself than to Marco.  “You have to be the worst man I have  _ever_ met.”

Marco, in the middle of making sure his cufflinks are back in place, stops moving.

“Oh?” he says, tone even.

Jean’s shoulders begin to square again, fists clenched, expression twisted in the sheer kind of anger Marco expects from men about to throw punches. He doesn’t expect Jean to throw a punch, though.

Because as much as Jean confuses him with his lack of vices, he’s still as easy to read as a book.

No, Jean is going to explode and vent and lose his inhibitions. Marco finds it a bit funny, really. All it took to get Jean to be straight with him was to push him off a cliff of his own anger.

And Jean, poor naïve Jean, has no idea Marco is already aware of everything he’s about to do. He just runs a hand through his silky hair and makes an irritated noise before focusing on the man in front of him. “I mean—how  _could_  you? At your own engagement party! Do you have no consideration for others?”

He doesn’t wait for Marco to answer, pacing and waving toward the castle that looms over them with distant revelry.

“You just—your fiancée is inside! The woman you’re going to marry! The future queen! The woman who has  _pledged herself_  to you—she’s waiting inside for you and you’re doing  _this_!?”

Marco taps his foot. He’s rather bored. Jean only becomes more frustrated at his lack of a response.

“I don’t understand how you can be so heartless! How can you take something like this and turn your back on it so easily!? I’ve been holding my tongue because it isn’t my place, but  _gods above_ , your complete disregard for others makes me sick!”

And Marco can see it. He can see the disgust plainly in Jean’s features, in every inch of his pretty face and the way he barely holds back his anger in his muscles. He wants to hit something. He wants to hit something and scream like a child but he’s holding himself down.

Marco’s head tilts and his lips quirk up in the tiniest of smiles.

“Does it now?”

“It does!” Jean yells, oblivious to the sarcasm. “You’re a murderous sociopath who doesn’t even care, and I can’t believe I used to look up to you! You have a beautiful woman, an amazing country, that looks up to you and  _loves_  you, and you just—”

That’s the breaking point. Marco can’t hold it back any longer. It bubbles and festers inside through all of Jean’s words until he hears the word  _love_  and it bursts forward with no control—

He laughs.

It begins small. A quick little noise that comes out too harshly, a giggle that nearly becomes a snort but before Marco can help it, it’s full bodied laughter that shakes him to his core.

He laughs so hard it hurts. He laughs so hard his ribs ache; his knees threaten to buckle as tears begin to form in his eyes. Jean stands, frozen, hand still raised for whatever gesture he was making as he watches Marco laugh until he can’t breathe.

Marco laughs and laughs and  _laughs_  because Jean, beautiful, naïve,  _stupid_  Jean…thinks it’s all so  _genuine_.

“You…you actually think…that marriage  _means_  anything?” Marco gasps out, holding his stomach through more painful laughter. “You think  _any_ of this has anything to do with love? With feelings?”

He  _wheezes_ , taking a moment to gather his breath back before he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and straightens up to speak. He’s had his fun. He’s let Jean have his say. He’s allowed Jean’s anger, his  _disappointment_  to have some pronounced effect on him but no more.

Time to end this little acting-out streak.

“It’s so fucking  _cute_  to hear you say things like this. Do you really think the world works this way? That kindness and good virtues get you anywhere?”

Jean startles, from the change in Marco’s tone and to the intensity overtaking the prince’s face.

“I—” he starts.

Marco cuts him off, taking a step forward.

“I’ll answer that for you. They  _don’t_. They get you killed. You, Jean Kirschstein, don’t have the  _right_  to tell me anything about ‘how could I’ when you have no goddamn clue how the world actually works.” Marco points to the castle, to the party outside and everything he came to the garden to escape, and narrows his eyes at the knight who is slowly becoming more intimidated as he continues on. “Maybe in the  _peasantry_  you can get away with this sort of thing, but in here, in these walls, those aren’t the rules.”

Jean’s intimidation wavers. The way  _peasantry_  rolls off of Marco’s tongue sets something off inside and his fire comes back as he straightens up and comes closer. “Why should I take what  _you_  have to say seriously? You’re a liar and a cheater.”

“Maybe.” Marco shrugs. He knows what he is. He doesn’t care. He smiles, that light smile he usually saves for feigning niceness, but now it’s meant to cut deep as he shows just how little he cares for Jean’s accusations. “But  _you_  put people on pedestals, so you only have yourself to blame for disappointment.”

Jean’s face turns red. Just as Marco knew it would.

He can dish it out but when it comes to getting called out himself, he has no idea what to do.

“Wha—?”

“Oh, please. It was obvious.” Marco laughs, getting closer and closer until he’s in Jean’s face and begins jabbing his finger into Jean’s chest with every emphasizing word. “You looked at me like I was a god, and you’re so  _angry_  I don’t fit the image you crafted in your mind. You’re so  _furious_  I’m not perfect. For someone who claims they’ve matured, it’s so  _childish_  of you to project those expectations on real people. The world isn’t your storybook of ideological purity. Get over it.”

Jean’s face is varying shades of red. Anger and other emotions, complicated emotions, emotions Marco doesn’t need to or care to understand, bubble inside of him, and Marco can see the battle raging on inside his head as he tries to figure a way out of the hole he’s dug himself into.

Jean could fight. He could punch and kick and scream. He could get as angry as he wants. But he won’t.

Because Marco is a cruel man and he knows, deep down, Jean is still  _infatuated_  with the idea of him and won’t do anything to cause him harm. Jean is a man who does not let go easy and that means Marco can stand here all night abusing him with words and Jean’ll just  _take_  it, because he’s still so eager to prove himself.

“Get off of your high horse for ten minutes and open your eyes. Look where you are. You want to know how things work here?” Marco changes from poking to carefully cupping Jean’s jaw, bringing him close enough he knows the flush in Jean’s cheeks has evolved from anger to vague arousal. He’s so  _easy_. It’s like playing a fiddle. “In the ballroom right now, half the people want to murder my fiancée because she poses a vague threat in the form of a bloodline to the king of Sina. A serial rapist who targets young maids is drinking wine and congratulating my parents on my future. The head of the local police force is taking a bribe and the man designing our prisons is the one giving it.”

Jean’s golden eyes are dilating, breathing evening out as Marco’s grip on his jaw tightens with each word. He probably doesn’t even know Marco’s doing it. Marco’s thumb softly strokes his skin, luring him deeper in, playing his  _want_  all too easily so he remains compliant. When the tip brushes against Jean’s lip, Jean offers the tiniest gasp that lets Marco know he has complete control over this boy.

“Every day I face people who would gladly sell me out and put my head on a pike. I exchange pleasantries with men who want to take my family’s legacy and burn it to the ground. Everyone lies. Everyone cheats. Everyone is a playing piece on a chess board, and if I do not control the board at all times, I will wake up one night to find a gun in my face and my country in the hands of people who would turn it upside down for their own gain.”

With that Marco, releases him, Jean blinking as suddenly the world comes back into focus. One hand comes up to softly touch where Marco’s fingers pressed to his skin.

“You think any of this is genuine? Gods, no. It’s all fake. Every last bit of it.” Marco steps back, allowing Jean to gain some semblance of sanity back as he remembers where he is. A smile devoid of humor or happiness crosses Marco’s face at it all. “The people combing the palace are only here because they’re  _nosy_  and they like to ignore the world and show off their money. Everyone here hates each other and we come together to get drunk and pretend we don’t.”

And that’s all it really is.

They’re here to gawk, to gossip, to come take a look at the circus that is the arrangement of lives in the upper crust of society. To get drunk on alcohol that costs more than the average citizen’s house and to pretend every lavish party doesn’t cost enough to build another hospital or school. Everything is for show. Everything is one big game of pretend.

One big game that Jean, naïve little peasant  _Jean_ , is too goddamn blind to see.

“And Historia? Ha!” Marco’s laugh dissipates into the night air, loud but fading into nothing as the party continues on without them as the sound of tinkling glasses and small talk whispers through the leaves. “She’s just as fake as I am.”

Jean blinks, hand dropping from his face as his earlier outrage over Lady Historia begins to trickle back into his mind.

“She—”

“She’s a lesbian, Jean. We’re getting married so she can fuck her guard in peace and I don’t have to entertain some heiress for the rest of my life.” Marco doesn’t give him the chance to argue again. His shoulders slump down and his eyes roll so hard and so fast they physically ache.

Jean blinks, flushing harder than before as his own eyes shoot to the ground in shame. Which is all Marco wants, really.

“Oh…”

His tantrum is officially done with. Thank goodness. Marco can see the shame, the slow horrible realization Jean’s started an argument over nothing burning through Jean’s mind. He can see the embarrassment, the mortification, the _dread_  of his punishment for his actions now he’s been convinced they aren’t very justified anymore.

And with that, Marco offers the final nail in the coffin. The final piece to maybe sink the feeling of shame in Jean’s own chest that Marco’s felt every time Jean has turned his back all these weeks.

“Yes. ‘ _Oh_ ,’” Marco lightly jabs. Jean flinches at how harsh his voice has become. “This is how the world works for nobility. You do what you have to to stay afloat. You lie. You cheat. You kill if you have to. Anything less and it’s your own fault if the things you care about are burned down in front of you. So someone like you, who has never lived in this world, has no place to say  _anything_.”

Marco doesn’t expect Jean to say anything after that. The silence of the gardens overtakes them and Jean is left to stew in his own feelings. On some level, Marco feels pity. It doesn’t last long, but it does flash through him briefly. After all, he was a child when he learned this lesson. He remembers the pain of the realization he can never fully trust a person. He remembers the isolation after going out into the world with his rose colored glasses shattered in his hands. He remembers being bound by the words  _never again_ seared into his soul.

But Jean’s a fully grown man who should have already known. How  _does_  someone as blind as him manage to get so far into the Guard without seeing some kind of underhanded business? Maybe he’s one of those poor misguided fools who blinds himself on purpose. Someone who picks up the rose colored shards and forcibly glues them together, fingers bleeding, making themselves look through cracked and stained vision all for the sake of the illusion of happiness.

Either way, Marco doesn’t care. His job is done. His guard is complacent again and things can return to normal.

He spins on his heel, preparing to leave and find Historia to entertain the masses, when Jean’s voice stops him.

“…do you…do you listen to yourself? When you talk?”

Marco turns and looks back at Jean questioningly. The knight’s golden eyes are boring into him in a way he can’t explain.

“What?”

“It’s just…your life sounds pathetically sad,” Jean states. He sounds lost. Confused.

_Pitying_.

Marco’s lips thin out and he tries his hardest to crush the flame of anger that erupts in his chest at the very idea. He doesn’t want pity. Not from someone like Jean. Not from a fool like Jean whose ideals are that of a child’s.

“I don’t need pity from  _you_ of all people,” Marco hisses, fist clenching as that _look_  in Jean’s eyes only grows stronger.

“It isn’t pity,” he says softly.

Marco opens his mouth—he’s prepared to give Jean a full verbal lashing, prepared to make him curl up with words alone—but before he can speak, Jean grabs his hand and pulls him forward into his chest. His arms wrap around Marco’s torso and one hand comes up to gently cradle Marco’s hair, burying his face into the crook of Jean’s neck. He smells like cologne and wine.

Marco, for once in his life, is at a complete loss.

A gentle breeze comes through the garden, breaking the heat of the night with a soft touch that makes his odd position in his guard’s arms too comfortable to be natural. He can’t make sense of this.

Marco’s voice comes out muffled against Jean’s neck, too light, too soft after all he’s said tonight. “…what are you doing?”

“I’m hugging you,” Jean answers plainly. As if it was obvious. His arms squeeze tighter and Marco can feel the strength that runs inside Jean from his years of training. He isn’t strong enough to hold Marco down, not even close, but…he isn’t trying to.

He’s holding Marco simply to hold him.

It doesn’t make  _sense_.

“Why on the gods’ green Earth would you do that?”

Jean huffs, and Marco can feel his breath through the suit.

“Because it’s what  _good fucking people_  do. Shut up.”

And Jean holds him. He holds him, hidden in the garden outside the castle, even though Marco has spent the better part of the night trying to hurt him into compliance. He holds him despite Marco exposing him to the horrors of the game. He holds him despite the fact he is a  _pawn_  and he  _knows_  it.

He holds him, tightly, comfortingly, until Marco’s tension leaves his muscles and he feels nothing but the body holding onto his. Until the world is condensed into the sound of Jean’s heartbeat, strong and steady, and the softness of silk against skin.

“I think…that it’s been a long time since you’ve gotten a hug. From someone you trust,” Jean begins.

Marco says nothing. He’s gotten hugs before. He sleeps with Eren’s arms wrapped around his body and legs wound together until they’re tied together so intimately their bodies become one. His world is in Eren’s arms. His world is learning to slip deft fingers into Eren’s clothes, dodging poisons and needles hidden in secret pockets.

He hugs his sister, who carries knives in her skirts.

He hugs his mother, who has been destroying men threatening her power since before he was born.

“I think you need a friend. Because if I can be frank, sir…” Jean continues, fingers softly stroking Marco’s hair. “You’ll go crazy if you spend your entire life believing you have to be so cruel and bear it all alone.”

Marco wants to laugh again. He wants to laugh until the pain is overwhelming and he can’t stand on his own two legs. He wants to laugh like a madman in the nuthouse, like a clown who tells the same jokes in the same tent in different towns, like—

He wants to laugh, but all he can do is allow Jean to hold him.

Stupid, naïve Jean.

Stupid, naïve Jean who smells like cologne and wine, whose arms are too comfortable, and who, despite being so easy to read, still manages to be so full of surprises.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, while writing this: GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY
> 
> COMMENTS are what motivate me to lose sleep and cry at 2 AM over these boys, as are visits to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/) where I discuss the fic and bonus content and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I tweet fic progress and shitpost late at night

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, I have an active [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) and [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I post extra content and offer snippets into future chapters and other projects 
> 
> And don't forget to COMMENT. Comments feed starving college writers like myself. Your donations would be much appreciated.


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